


Nothing Comes From Nothing (Nothing Ever Could)

by Lynchy8



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Captain!Jolras, Confessions, F/M, Guns, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Maria!Grantaire, OH THE ANGST!, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Sound of Music AU, UST, ovary-crushing cuteness, rule 63 Montparnasse, running away from Nazis, so I've been told :-p, some smut, the Sound of Music AU sex scene nobody knew they wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Salzburg, Austria, in the last golden days of the thirties.</p><p>Captain Enjolras Von Trapp needs a tutor for his seven sons and applies to the local Abbey who send him a scruffy young postulant who is trying to find his place in the world. Sparks fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely besanii's fault. After her brilliant idea of the "dancing on the veranda" scene I find myself unable to leave this alone.

It was one of those days that made you feel good to be alive. The sky was a remarkable blue and everything felt so clean and real that Grantaire just had to be a part of it. Soon he was lost to the sensation, the Abbey far behind as he climbed up the hill, higher and higher, his head full of the scene that surrounded him. He sat down on the grass, drunk on the scent of it, reaching for his sketchbook and roll of pencils from the satchel over his shoulder. 

Of course he wasn’t strictly supposed to be up there, and he probably wasn’t supposed to be humming but how could you not, on a day like today? How could anyone resist the sensation to join in with the birds and just sing out loud, no one nearby to hear or care or admonish.

Eventually it was the bells that brought him back to his senses. The bells ringing clearly and loudly, calling him to Evensong. 

“Oh heck!” and he almost laughed at himself for remembering here, of all places, not to swear when so often he had been reprimanded in the Abbey. He rolled up his pencils and took off in the direction of the bells as fast as his legs would carry him.

Grantaire had been, almost literally, born in a barn, something he tried not to show too often. He was wild and prone to sudden outbursts, but he had a pure heart and he tried hard, something that was appreciated by the monks who had taken him in when he came down the mountain and peered over their wall. One day he wanted to be a monk, to follow in the footsteps of the wise Abbot Father but he had a lot to learn before then.

Of course his absence had been noted. As he hurried into the courtyard, stopping briefly at the pump to wash his face and hands, he found the Abbot standing with the Prior, the Dean, the Master of Postulants and the Master of Novices as though waiting patiently for their lost sheep to return. Grantaire swallowed; he had tumbled into trouble again.

Grantaire hated being in trouble which was unfortunate as he seemed to spend a great deal of his time in just that state of affairs. He couldn’t seem to help himself. If he wasn’t whistling or speaking out of turn, then he was tearing his trousers climbing trees or scrapping with other postulants, though admittedly he hadn’t been involved in a fight since a very extensive - though surprisingly calm - conversation about appropriate behaviour with the Abbot Father. 

He seemed to be ‘perpetually late’ according to the Master of Postulants who had torn a good deal of his hair out trying to deal with the young man and sometimes it felt as though he was endlessly muttering rosaries for his bad choice of words. However, despite all this, he was tolerated by his fellow postulants, monks and novices. He was quite liked for his quick humour, easy laugh, and obvious good heart. He was a spark of life within the dusty walls.

But now he was standing outside the Abbot’s office door again, biting nervously at his lip, waiting to be granted admittance, his heart thumping desperately in his chest. He had promised the Father Abbot that he would try his best to stay out of trouble but here he was again. He lowered his head in shame.

Finally, he was shown inside. 

Grantaire liked the smell of the old wood in the room. He could feel the years echoing from the walls, feel the very passing of time here. He felt slightly calmer. Even though he was in trouble, in this room he felt safe.

He instantly fell to his knees, kissing the outstretched hand of the Father Abbot.

“Oh, Father, I am so sorry,” he implored as the man smiled at him kindly, gesturing for him to get to his feet and sit down.

“You’re not here for apologies, my son,” he replied gently. The Father never shouted, never raised his voice. 

Grantaire gaped at him for a moment. If he wasn’t here for admonishment, then why had the Abbot summoned him? Somehow he did not feel comforted.

The Abbot paused as though to choose his words carefully. He regarded Grantaire keenly. A number of eyebrows had been raised when he had agreed to take in the somewhat scruffy boy who used to climb their walls. The boy had never attempted to steal anything, unlike some of the other urchins who attempted to break in. He used to simply sit and watch the Brothers at work in the kitchen gardens, once or twice joining in with the songs sung on the way to Vespers.

Some of the Brothers had taken pity on the lad, teaching him to read and to draw. He came and went for a couple of years, growing from boy to youth, eventually becoming a permanent fixture at the Abbey. So it seemed natural to the Abbot to offer the boy a place as a postulant with a view to an eventual Noviceship, even if his start in life had been less than desirable. The boy tried, and he listened and attempted to learn; for that the Abbot Father felt he should be given a chance.

Unfortunately the Master of Novices was not in agreement. It was nothing against Grantaire’s character. It was his spirit. His body may stand in the walls of the Abbey but his spirit roamed wild.

“My son, I think it may be time for you to leave us. Only for a little time,” the Abbot added hastily, seeing the colour drain from Grantaire’s face as he half rose from his seat in protest.

“Oh, please Father, don’t do that, don’t send me away,” he implored. “This is my home, my family.” The Abbot held up his hand for silence, but he knew Grantaire. He knew the boy did not use those words lightly.

“I want you to go out into the world for a time, knowing what we expect of you. I would like you to find out if you can expect it of yourself.”

Grantaire sat in silence, trying to keep his head in the room. Only for a little time, the Father Abbot said, and he wouldn’t lie. Only for a little time. Meanwhile the Abbot Father continued to talk.

He spoke of a family just outside the city that required a tutor for the summer until September. At the mention of seven sons Grantaire raised his head, his face clouded somewhere between confusion and horror and he couldn’t help the splutter that escaped.

“Seven?!”

The Abbot Father sighed patiently as he continued, while Grantaire mulled over the frankly horrible idea of being left in charge of children. He hadn’t got the first idea of how to deal with children, much less _seven_ of them.

“I’ll send word for Captain Von Trapp to expect you tomorrow.”

Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“Captain?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. Grantaire and authority figures didn’t usually mix well. The Abbot smiled benevolently at him, explaining that the Captain was a retired officer of the Imperial Navy, that he was a fine, brave man but that, for some reason, since his wife had passed away he had experienced some difficulty in keeping a tutor for his sons.

Grantaire groaned internally. He could well imagine why that might be.

The next morning found him wearing an old shirt and cloth trousers, clutching a bag filled with his meagre possessions and his guitar case in hand as he set foot outside the Abbey gate and into the town. For the first time in four years he walked away from the Abbey without the intention to return in time for Mass.

The final words of the Abbot Father rang in his ears.

When the lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.

+

Grantaire’s eyes nearly fell out of his head as he approached the gates of the house. He checked the paper the Abbot Father had given him again just to be absolutely sure he had the right place. 

It was huge. It was a palace. Grantaire had never seen a house as big as this, much less set foot in one. As he made his way across the gravel driveway up towards the front door he wondered what on earth he had done in his life to deserve such an opportunity.

He rang the bell and waited, casting an eye over the number of windows, wondering how long it would take to wash them all, when finally the door was opened by a strange, small man in a waistcoat. Never one to judge books by their covers, and perfectly aware that he was no oil painting himself, Grantaire stuck out a brave hand and introduced himself as the new tutor.

The man frowned.

“I would be the Butler,” the man replied, somewhat frostily, waving Grantaire inside.

Right, of course he was. Grantaire could have kicked himself. It was patently obvious that no one who lived in a house this big would open his own doors. Feeling a little foolish, he shuffled inside, setting his bag and guitar case down just inside the door so he could take a proper look around.

The Butler told him to wait and promptly disappeared, probably to announce his arrival or something. It occurred to Grantaire that for a house that was supposed to be the home of seven boys, it was eerily silent.

He moved down the small set of stairs into a main hall, if you could call it a hall. It was larger than the dining room at the Abbey. The sweeping staircase led up to a mezzanine that stretched all around him, while down here on the ground floor, there were various closed doors, all unbelievably tempting. Before he knew what he was doing, Grantaire had moved over to one such door, trying the handle which, to his surprise, moved easily.

He stepped into the shadows. The room he found himself in was even bigger than the hall, almost as large as the main chapel. In the semi-darkness he could make out mirrors which reflected the small amount of light coming round the side of the shutters. As he gazed around, eyes wide, the door behind him banged open suddenly.

Silhouetted in the doorway was a tall figure, black and gold where the light caught his hair. Grantaire felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as the silhouette stepped back, revealing a stern face with sharp jawbones and piercing blue eyes. Grantaire moved meekly, backing away around the figure into the hallway, feeling that this gaze was ten times worse than the most disapproving frowns he had ever received from the Master of Postulants.

“You will kindly remember in future that there are certain rooms in this house which are not to be disturbed.”

It wasn’t a question; that much was clear from the tone. Grantaire nodded his understanding, while looking the man over. He wasn’t quite what Grantaire had been expecting.

This man stood straight, ramrod straight, his long, blonde hair tied back into a neat ponytail at the base of his neck. He was clean shaven, his jaw firm and his head held high as he looked Grantaire up and down. Grantaire gazed back, thinking how young the man looked given that he was old enough to be a sea captain and a father of seven.

“Why do you stare at me that way?” he frowned, his lower lip protruding slightly as Grantaire blushed. 

“You don’t look at all like a sea captain, Sir,” he said, the truth escaping his lips almost unbidden. He had always been a terrible liar and he felt his cheeks burn as the man before him haughtily raised his eyebrows.

“Well you don’t look much like a tutor,” he shot back. Grantaire lowered his gaze to his toes, feeling that he probably deserved that. He was aware of his scruffy appearance, especially when stood in the sight of such a fine gentleman.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to change. You can’t possibly wear that to meet the children.”

Grantaire ignored the insult to his appearance, instead taking note of how the Captain referred to his sons as “the” children not “my” children.

“I’m afraid I haven’t got anything else,” he replied. The Captain’s frown deepened.

“Can you make your own clothes?” He asked, raising his eyebrows, his face doubtful of the reply.

“Yes,” Grantaire bristled under the assumption. He wasn’t completely hopeless.

“Well, I’ll see you get some material.” He twisted his mouth, sparing a final glare to Grantaire’s boots. “Today, if at all possible.”

The Captain moved then, striding round Grantaire and starting to pace, giving the impression that he was about to start a well-rehearsed speech.

“Now, Herr... er…” he turned to Grantaire, looking to him for the answer. 

“Grantaire,” he supplied helpfully. The Captain nodded.

“Herr Grantaire,” Grantaire winced at the title. “I am Captain Enjolras Von Trapp and you are the twelfth in a long line of tutors for my sons. Your predecessors were completely incapable of maintaining any sort of discipline. Without it this house cannot be run properly.”

Grantaire let the man speak, only half listening to the barked instructions relating to studying and marching and bedtimes, all the while taking the opportunity to watch the man, Enjolras, march in firm lines, his face stern, his eyes hard and focussed as he spoke. His voice was compelling and commanding. Grantaire could have listened to him talk all day, even if what he was staying was absolute rubbish verging on the terrifying.

He wondered very briefly if this was some sort of horrible joke being played on him. Boys should be out in the fresh air, running and shouting and climbing trees, not marching while breathing deeply for goodness’ sake.

“You must ensure that they conduct themselves at all times with the utmost orderliness and decorum,” Grantaire brought his focus back onto the speech, aware that Captain Enjolras was wrapping it up. “I’m placing you in command.”

Grantaire couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t. Before he knew what he was doing, he had raised his hand in a salute and called out “Yes, Sir!”

It was painfully obvious that the captain didn’t find that at all amusing but somehow Grantaire didn’t feel like he cared. Let him be fired and sent home to the Abbey on his first day, see if he cared. For a moment he half expected the Captain to yell a reprimand at him, but what actually happened was beyond bizarre.

Enjolras withdrew a whistle from his pocket and blew it loudly. Grantaire’s eyes widened in shock. Before he had a chance to recover, Enjolras blew the whistle again, looking up at the mezzanine. There was a series of loud bangs, the first signs of life Grantaire was aware of since entering this strange house. Suddenly a mob of boys appeared, all dressed in a grey sort of uniform. They lined up at the balcony before marching down the stairs, following the whistled directions from their father. Grantaire didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Eventually the boys were lined up in front of him, turning on the spot and coming to attention before him. They were a sea of faces, some blond like their father, some brunet, a variety of brown, and blue eyes, except for the slim boy in the middle who stared right at him with the greenest eyes Grantaire had ever seen.

He gazed at the boys feeling ever so sorry for them as they stared back at him with empty, guarded looks while their father introduced him as “Herr Grantaire”, something he determined he never wanted to boys to repeat if he could help it.

“As I sound your signals you will step forward and give your name,” Enjolras turned his attention back to Grantaire. “You will listen closely and learn their signals so that you can call them if you need them.”

It was a ridiculous performance, these boys stepping forward, stamping and shouting and falling back into line. The words totally passed him by, catching only a few names here and there but mostly his brain was filled with the hideous sound of that dreadful whistle. He hadn’t been overly fond of the bells that controlled his life at the Abbey but this was a thousand times worse. Then a whistle was being pressed into his hands.

“Oh I won’t need to whistle for them,” he protested, looking up in shock at the Captain, vaguely aware of the burning in his hand where Enjolras had touched his skin.

“Not when they have names of their own,” he turned back to the children who were staring straight ahead, not looking at him at all. He heard the Captain sigh beside him.

“This is a large house, the grounds are very extensive. There will be no shouting.” He fixed Grantaire with a firm stare that chilled him to the bone.

“You will take the whistle. You will learn how to use it.”

Well, there didn’t seem to be much more to be said. He stared down at the cold, metal object in his hand.

“When I want you,” Enjolras continued, oblivious to Grantaire’s discomfort, “this is what you will hear,”

He raised the whistle to his lips but Grantaire couldn’t take it anymore, moving to interrupt him. Enjolras looked vaguely outraged at the impertinence of it.

“I’m sorry, I could never answer to a whistle,” Grantaire shook his head forcefully, feeling vaguely sick at the very idea.

“Whistles are for dogs and cats and other animals but not for children and definitely not for me,” Grantaire gulped, surprised at his bravery. He received a withering look of scorn for his troubles as Enjolras took a purposeful step forward.

“Tell me, were you this much trouble at the Abbey?”

Grantaire thought of home, of how right now he would probably be in the kitchen gardens, bringing in some herbs for the cooks, or perhaps in Latin translation, doodling instead of conjugating the verbs of the New Testament. He thought of his fellow Postulants, of the Brothers and the Dean and Abbot Father. He looked back up at Enjolras, feeling strangely sober. He wasn’t about to lie.

“Much more trouble there, Sir,” he replied. Enjolras regarding him for a moment, as though trying to decide if Grantaire was being serious, before nodding, turning and marching away. Grantaire watched him, before brazenly bringing the whistle to his lips and blowing hard, forcing Enjolras to stop in his tracks. The man turned, slowly and deliberately to glare across at Grantaire who smiled back innocently.

“Excuse me, Sir, but I don’t know your signal.”

“You may call me Captain,” he returned frostily, before turning to go.

Grantaire shoved the whistle deep into his pocket determined to throw it as hard and as far away from him as he could at his first opportunity. He turned back to the boys who were trying not to shuffle on the spot.

“Ok, as it’s just us, can you go through your names again a bit slower, and how old you are?”  
He ran a hand through his hair, determined to commit these names to memory.

The eldest gave him a stern look, the look of someone who could see quite clearly through Grantaire’s assumed identity and wasn’t fooled for a moment. It was remarkably like his father’s and Grantaire wondered how long the boy had been trying to convince Enjolras that he wasn’t a child anymore.

“I’m Combeferre. I’m sixteen years old,” he looked Grantaire up and down before continuing. “And I do not require a tutor.” Grantaire recoiled slightly under the force of the glare levelled at him by such a young face, but quickly recovered.

“Er, thank you for telling me that, Combeferre,” he replied, wrestling round his head to find something that wasn’t too patronising. “I guess we’ll just be friends.” From the barely disguised look of disgust he highly doubted that somehow.

The next boy looked less haughty but had a much more mischievous glint in his eye as he stepped forward.

“I’m Courfeyrac, I’m fourteen and I’m impossible.” 

Grantaire could well believe it. He turned to the next one along, a well-built lad, already taller than his two older brothers. He stepped forward smartly.

“I’m Feuilly,” Grantaire could spot that smirk a mile off and wasn’t fooled for a second.

“You, er, didn’t tell me how old you are, Bahorel,” he smirked right back, calling the boy’s bluff. Bahorel huffed, caught out, suffering a jabbed elbow from Courfeyrac. Further down the line, the real Feuilly stepped forward, his sharp eyes surveying Grantaire keenly.

“You’re right of course, I’m Feuilly. That’s Bahorel. He’s thirteen years old.” He paused, head on one side as he looked Grantaire up and down, mimicking the movements of his father a short time before.

“And you’re smarter than you look. I’m ten and I think those are scruffiest boots I have ever seen.” Feuilly looked back up, right into Grantaire’s eyes, almost making him shiver. He didn’t quite know what to say to that, but was saved having to comment by the slightly taller, slender boy standing between Feuilly and Bahorel.

“Oh, now Feuilly. You shouldn’t say things like that, however true it might be,” the boy drawled, a strange, almost lazy look upon his face. Feuilly stepped back into line next to his brothers without another word, meanwhile the one that had spoken, Jehan, stepped forward. 

“I’m Jehan, I’m eleven and I’m incorrigible,” he spoke with a slightly wicked grin, hidden beneath the surface of his otherwise neutral expression.

It was a big word for an eleven year old but Grantaire could tell the boy knew exactly what it meant, holding Grantaire’s gaze steadily, almost challengingly. Grantaire could only nod, finally tearing his eyes away to the younger children at the end of the line. This one was obviously quite a bit younger than Feuilly, and stepped forward shyly.

“I’m Bossuet, I’m going to be seven on Tuesday and I would like a pink parasol.” The boy’s voice was tremulous and soft as he looked up at Grantaire with reticent, unsure eyes. Grantaire crouched down in front of the boy, smiling brightly. The kid had obviously recently had a severe haircut, probably taking off his baby curls. 

“Pink is one of my favourite colours too,” he agreed, his voice soft. Bossuet’s smile lit up his whole face, warming Grantaire’s heart and he hoped the little lad got what he wanted.

Finally, he turned his attention to the youngest at the far end who stamped his foot impatiently.

“Yes, you’re Joly,” he grinned indulgently and Joly nodded, his brown eyes sparkling and wide, strangely trusting even though they had just met. He held up his hand, splaying out five fingers.

“And you’re five?” Grantaire made a sound of mock surprise. “My goodness you’re practically as old as me!” Joly giggled easily, his little chubby cheeks blushing red. 

Grantaire stepped back, appraising the motley group in front of him. They were sweet kids, although it was going to be a riot dealing with the older boys, especially Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Bahorel. There was mischief to be found there and no mistake.

He rubbed the back of his neck again, taking a deep breath before continuing. 

“Right. Well, I’m Grantaire. Not Herr Grantaire and certainly not Sir. Just, Grantaire is fine.” He looked down the line of neutral faces from Combeferre’s slightly stern look all the way to Bossuet and Joly who were still smiling, giving him a little courage.

“Or R, if you like.” The words were out of his mouth before he could decide it was a bad idea. 

The nickname the Brothers had given him when he was a boy had stuck with him all the way to his admittance to the Abbey and it was precious to him. He wasn’t sure he wanted it belittled or abused by Courfeyrac or Bahorel, but he sensed the younger boys needed something soft and tangible. They were only children after all. They needed a lot less marching and a lot more fun in their lives.

A woman appeared then, her hair knotted into a tight bun, shepherding the children outside. Grantaire was vaguely aware of Courfeyrac knocking into him as the boys moved towards the door while the woman introduced herself as the housekeeper. She smiled warmly, leading him towards the stairs with the intent of showing him to his room.

He watched the boys leaving, feeling quite sad for them that they were destined for an afternoon of the marching and breathing that their father seemed to think was a good idea. He determined to show these kids a good time if it killed him.

Suddenly he felt something move in his pocket; something squidgy and wet and alive. He honestly couldn’t help the embarrassing cry of surprise as a frog leapt out, desperate for freedom. He watched as it hopped harmlessly down the stairs.

“You’re very lucky. With the last one it was a snake,” the housekeeper informed him, continuing to walk up the stairs.

R battled to put his heart back in his chest where it belonged, casting a last frustrated look back at the group who trooped out into the grounds, knowing full well their joke had backfired and they were caught.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first evening in the Von Trapp household

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> massive thank you to Serena for being my beta on this! massively appreciated :)

Grantaire was exhausted. He sat, slumped in a chair by the window, watching the summer lightning flash across the sky. It was too warm to have them closed and the cool breeze that filtered through was welcome against his face as he tried to process the events of the day.

Dinner had not started well. Grantaire had become lost in the myriad of corridors between his bedroom and the dining room, which inevitably resulted in him stumbling in a few minutes late, earning a glare of disapproval from the Captain and a smirk from some of the children. Enjolras was flushed pink as though he had recently finished shouting and Grantaire had an uncomfortable feeling that he had been the subject.

“Good evening,” he greeted, holding his head high, choosing to brazen the experience out as he moved towards his seat. The children chorused a sing-song response. He moved to sit down in his chair but leapt up almost immediately, trying to suffocate the involuntary strangled yell in his throat, the result of having sat down on something hard and prickly. 

It hadn’t hurt, exactly, it was more the shock of it. When your body is expecting a smooth flat surface and then finds itself in contact with something that is the complete opposite, it immediately braces itself for the worst. Grantaire felt extraordinarily foolish, especially when he looked down to see a harmless pinecone, still wobbling slightly where he had disturbed it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bahorel grinning at Courfeyrac. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Most interesting,” Enjolras said dryly, looking somewhere between bored and irritated by the performance. “Something the Brothers taught you at the Abbey perhaps?”

The Captain waited patiently for some sort of explanation. Not only had Grantaire had the temerity to turn up late to dinner, but now he was making a scene as well. Grantaire blinked at him for a moment before patting his hip.

“Bad back,” he muttered, slipping into his seat while sweeping the offending pine cone onto the floor. 

His insistence on saying grace only seemed to exacerbate the building atmosphere but eventually they tucked into their dinners.

The older boys kept shooting each other significant looks, not being at all subtle in their behaviour. Indeed, they acted as though both adults in the room were blind. Grantaire looked to the Captain to see what he made of all the nudging and winking going on but Enjolras’s attention was firmly on his dinner. Grantaire felt a slight stab of irritation and before he could change his mind he cleared his throat.

“I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to each and every one of you for your warm welcome this afternoon,” he started, looking pointedly at his dinner. Enjolras stirred from his reverie to look up, somewhat surprised that the silence of the meal had been disturbed.

“Especially for the precious gift that you left for me in my pocket,” he smiled benignly round the room, enjoying the suppressed looks of discomfort on all the boys’ faces.

“Gift?” Enjolras sighed, attempting to look interested, but with a decidedly icy undercurrent to his tone.

“My apologies, Captain, but I believe it is supposed to be a secret between the children and I,” Grantaire replied smoothly, enjoying the flash of annoyance in Enjolras’s eyes.

“In that case, I suggest you keep it, and let the rest of us eat,” he snapped, stabbing his fork quite violently into a defenceless vegetable on his plate. But Grantaire wasn’t done yet. He wanted these little terrors to squirm.

“Knowing how terrifying it must be to come out into the world for the first time in four years,” he spoke softly, laying it on thick while murmuring an apology to the Abbot Father for his slight untruth. “Knowing how nervous I must have been, coming into a strange house for the first time, how important it was to me to feel accepted.”

He paused to take a sip of water before smiling brightly round the table of increasingly red faces, finally meeting Enjolras’s eyes. Enjolras, who looked beyond confused at this strange little speech; to be almost on the point of losing both his manners and his temper.

“It was so lovely of you all to make my first moments here so comforting and pleasant.” 

He sat back, enjoying the effect of his words. Combeferre was looking pointedly at his dinner but the tips of his ears were bright pink. Bahorel and Courf, both pouting slightly in embarrassment, hopefully realising the childishness of their behaviour. Jehan and Feuilly, both faces closed, clutching their forks that little bit harder, and all the while Enjolras continued to stare.

The Captain only tore his eyes away from Grantaire at the first gulped sob. He turned to see Bossuet clinging to an increasingly distressed Joly.

“What is the matter?” he asked incredulously. Bossuet’s eyes widened and he released his brother’s shoulders, but still clutched his hands as the tears continued to fall down Joly’s cheeks.

“Nothing,” the little boy gulped, trying to get a grip on himself and Grantaire almost felt sorry for him, except that he knew full well all seven of them had been in on the plot. The housekeeper had been able to tell him some very interesting stories about what the Von Trapp children did in lieu of fun. Well, that stopped now.

Looking round the table, just Joly’s harsh breaths breaking up the silence as he continued to try and stop crying, he counted the dinner as a victory and finished the rest of his meal in peace.

Mostly he watched the others. He watched as Bossuet pulled faces at Joly to try and cheer the younger boy up. He watched Courf and Bahorel as they casually began kicking each other under the table, whilst maintaining the appearance of sitting quietly.

He observed Jehan play with his hair, gazing into space while pushing his food around his plate, barely eating anything. Next to him, Feuilly was watching just as much as Grantaire. He watched his brothers and he watched his father. Once or twice he caught Grantaire’s eye. He didn’t look away, as one might expect. He held Grantaire’s gaze before moving on to his next subject of interest. Most of all he watched the Captain eat in silence, barely paying any of them any attention.

Shortly after the main course had been swept away, the Butler brought a telegram and the tempo in the room changed dramatically. There were various cries of dismay from around the table as the Captain announced that he would be leaving for Vienna in the morning. Grantaire’s attention, however, was not on the hubbub being made as the older boys fired questions at their father regarding his impending trip, nor on the Captain’s answers. He watched Combeferre excuse himself from the table, ostensibly crossing the room to the sideboard, before stealing out of the room. More than that, he noted that Enjolras was completely oblivious that his eldest child had left the room, or that he had been smiling to himself when he had done so.

In the safety of his bedroom, it was to Combeferre that Grantaire’s thoughts now turned.

+

As Combeferre slipped out of the side door and down the path into the gardens, his heart thumped treacherously behind his ribs. It was possible he was too late, that she wouldn’t be waiting for him. There was no guarantee that the Butler had brought the telegram straight to the dinner table, but he couldn’t bear the idea that he had missed her and so he skipped down the stone steps and along the gravel path as quickly as he could without actually running.

He need not have worried. There was a familiar silhouette perched on the bench by the summer house. At the sound of approaching feet, the shadow turned.

“Well it’s about time, boy,” a harsh, yet musical voice rang out in the dusk. “Didn’t your father ever tell you not to keep a lady waiting?”

+

Combeferre had first seen her from the window of the library during the Christmas holidays. He had spotted a thin figure waltzing up the path in the snow. A short time later and she was running back again, having evidently been to the house for whatever reason and now, her business fulfilled, she was heading back towards the gate.

He envied her greatly. She seemed to be about his age and yet she could come and go as she pleased, while he was trapped within the walls, only ever looking out, the wrought-iron gates nothing more than an elaborate cage.

Combeferre loved his brothers dearly but they did bore him sometimes. Courfeyrac and Bahorel could be achingly immature, happy to scrap between themselves. He yearned for some decent company of his own, someone he hadn’t grown up with and hadn’t been there to witness the embarrassing follies of childhood.

He began to look out for the figure, choosing to read in the window seat of the library, claiming it gave good light, when in fact it afforded him a good view of the road. Many days he was left disappointed, but sometimes he was lucky to see her walking, trudging, marching, skipping, occasionally running from the gate and up the path. He watched her and he felt both elation and despair.

Then, one day, he was startled when she looked up, looked right at him, a grin dancing across her face. Then she waved at him. He shyly raised his arm, a pathetic attempt at a wave back. She doubled over, apparently laughing but the sound not reaching him through the glass. Then she turned and ran all the way back to the gate.

The next time she came she waved at him as she came up the drive. He dropped his books and darted from the room, earning him a surprised shout from the tutor of the time. He met her on the drive, an extraordinarily stupid move by all accounts, in full view of all those windows. Somehow he got away with it and since then she had waited for him on the stone bench. _Eponine_. 

+

“I’ve missed you,” he muttered into her hair as they hugged and she laughed as she always did whenever he did any of his ‘soft talk’ as she called it.

“How much?” she challenged, her eyes sparkling. She was like no one else he had ever met; all angles and rough edges. She had a wicked laugh and an even harsher tongue but she held his hand and told him about Outside and seemed to be more than comfortable in his company.

They would sit together for as long as he could, til either he had to return or she had to go on another errand. Sometimes it was only for a few minutes, but occasionally, like tonight, they could sit and chat and almost forget that the rest of the world was waiting for them, either back in the house or outside the gate.

“It occurred to me that I could arrange for a telegram to be delivered here, just so you could bring it,” he said solemnly and she grinned at him.

“Oh, I thought about it, too.” She said carelessly, turning her head away from Combeferre’s intense gaze.

“I thought perhaps I could bring a telegram here that was intended for some other stuffed shirt colonel. Lord knows there’s enough going around at the moment what with the…” he voice trailed off, and she took her hand back from Combeferre, an uneasy silence settling upon them. That was the problem with Outside. Big things were happening out there.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t want to go getting your father into any trouble,” she muttered to her lap, twisting her mouth. They’d talked about it briefly before, the political situation, the deepening cracks, the blurring between Austrian and German. Sometimes it felt worlds away. Sometimes it felt as though the wolves were at the door.

Combeferre reached forward, suddenly feeling brave, gently brushing her shoulder.

“You shouldn’t worry about my father,” he said firmly and with that, the cheeky grin was back as she shot him a look.

“Oh I’m not,” her reply was airy and careless as she looked over to the boy on the stone seat next to her. 

“I do worry about his eldest boy though,” she teased, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Combeferre coloured slightly.

“I’m not a boy. I’ll be seventeen in September,” he sat up a bit straighter but Eponine just laughed at him, knocking his shoulder.

“What do you know of the world? Smart little rich boy like you walled up in this cemetery.” Her words stung him, but she ploughed on, either not realising or not caring about the effect she was having on him.

“Don’t you fret! I’ll look after you, all right. I’ll show you the real world beyond your gates.” Eponine cocked her head up at him, her grin softening slightly as she leaned forward, staring up at Combeferre intently.

The first splashes of rain fell just as their lips brushed.

+

Grantaire sighed, staring over to the chest of drawers where a pile of materials had been set earlier that evening; white cotton for shirts, brown and green for waistcoats and corduroy for trousers. It was good material, generous to the touch. Grantaire didn’t think he had ever known anything like it and could not quite imagine his own shambolic frame wearing the clothes into which they would be made.

Clothing troubled him greatly. For most of the evening he had been making lists of things he wanted to do with the boys over the summer and nearly all of them involved being outside and while he intended for the boys to have fun, that didn’t mean they should destroy their no-doubt expensive clothing at the same time. 

Briefly considering the possibility of asking the Captain for more material, he got up from his chair, taking a sip of water from the glass on the stand by his bed before sinking to his knees, elbows resting on the eiderdown, forehead resting on his clasped hands as he started to mutter in prayer.

+

Combeferre stared up at the rows of windows, cursing his own carelessness. He had stayed with Eponine far too long, the pair seeking both shelter and privacy in the summer house, sharing kisses between the flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder.

Now she had stolen away, the echo of her lips still tingling his skin, and he was locked out. Combeferre considered his options. He was soaked to the skin and while the lightning did not especially bother him, he knew it was unwise to be outside in a storm, especially around all these trees.

As the rain lashed down, a flash of lightning lit up the side of the house. The nursery windows were closed firm, but just for a moment he had seen that the window to the room along the landing was open. This was good news and bad news. The good news being that it was open and he knew that the trellis up to that window was secure and more than capable of holding his weight. The bad news was that the window opened not into a bathroom or the safety of a landing, but directly into the tutor’s bedroom.

He stared up at Grantaire’s window. Getting in wasn’t the issue. In fact, that would be the easiest part of the operation. But then what? Maybe his tutor would be in the bathroom, or out in search of a late night cup of cocoa, or having a conversation below stairs with the house keeper. Or he could be in his room and then Combeferre would be caught.

Better caught by the young tutor in there than by his father out here. Taking a deep breath, he began to climb the trellis.

+  
Grantaire was on his knees. Prayer was a habit more than anything else. A moment of quiet to try and organise his thoughts into some sort of order. He found he slept better after this ritual even if his religious fervour was not all that it should be for someone considering taking vows. But the Abbot Father was a good man. The Abbot Father prayed so Grantaire tried to pray too. 

He had his back to the open window but he wasn’t deaf. He clearly heard the sound of the window frame creaking as it was pulled open even wider, followed by the heavy breathing of someone hauling themselves inside. He turned round and was rather shocked to see Combeferre of all people topple inside.

Grantaire and Combeferre stared at each other for a moment, wondering who would make the first move.

“Would you like a towel? Grantaire asked eventually, because really, the boy was going to catch pneumonia if he stayed standing there in those sodden clothes. Not only did it look as though he had been swimming fully clothed, but the front of his shirt was caked in mud. There was also a tear in the right knee of his trousers. He looked more like a street urchin than the son of a naval captain.

Realising that he couldn’t expect a civil answer any time soon, Grantaire got up and padded over to the bathroom, reaching inside for a towel without taking his eyes off the pathetic figure by the window in case he was stupid enough to make a run for it.

Combeferre accepted the towel, rubbing it through his hair first, before slinging it round his shoulders.

“I was, er, taking a walk after dinner. Someone must have locked the doors early,” he offered in a guarded tone of voice, his chin jutting out almost defiantly. Grantaire smiled at him. He wasn’t born yesterday. There was only six years difference between the two of them and he had done a fair bit of climbing of his own in his youth.

He knew full well Combeferre hadn’t been out walking alone. It wasn’t just the slight pink flush to his cheeks, but more to do with the hint of a bruise at the base of the boy’s neck, barely hidden by his soaked shirt.

Realising that Grantaire wasn’t buying his story, Combeferre sighed, his walls slipping slightly.

“Are you going to tell father?” he asked in a resigned tone of voice.

Grantaire stared at him for a moment, his mouth twisting slightly as he considered the question. He walked over to the window with the intention of closing it, buying himself more time before he answered. It was at that point that he realised just how far off the ground they were.

“How in the world did you get up here?” he spluttered, unable to keep the tone of awe from his voice. Combeferre shrugged, nonchalantly.

“How we always got into this room. Climb the trellis. Bahorel can do it with a whole jar of spiders in his hand!” There was a childish hint of pride in his voice, and the smallest of smiles quirking at the corner of Combeferre’s usually severe lips.

“Right, well,” Grantaire muttered distractedly, rubbing at the back of his neck with his hand. “Why don’t we wash your shirt out – no one will notice it tomorrow. Here,” he crossed the room to grab a linen nightshirt from the dresser and chucked it at Combeferre who was almost gawping with shock.

“Take a quick shower and then we’ll have a chat, yes?”

It was an olive branch, one he hoped the young man would accept. Combeferre slowly nodded his head before turning and heading towards the bathroom. Just as he reached the door, he turned back, looking slightly awkward.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, as though the words did not come easily. “Maybe… maybe I need a tutor after all.”

+

The storm raged on overhead as Grantaire waited for Combeferre to come back out and talk to him. He didn’t know much about girls but he knew enough; hopefully enough for a frustrated sixteen year old to trust him with anyway.

Suddenly his bedroom door banged open and Joly scuttled in looking terrified.

“Joly?” Grantaire moved across the room to him where the small boy instantly wrapped his arms around the taller man’s knees, holding on for dear life. Grantaire crouched down so he was level with Joly rather than talking down to him.

“You’re not scared of the storm are you?” he asked gently. Joly shook his head violently, before burying his head into Grantaire’s shoulder at the next clap of thunder.

“Don’t like it, R!” the boy wailed and Grantaire had to suppress as smile, gathering Joly into his arms.

“Don’t you worry about it, little one. You stay right here with me.” Joly was light for a five year old and Grantaire held him easily.

“Where are the others?” he asked, more to distract the boy than for any particular answer. Joly sat back, regarding R with big eyes.

“They’re asleep. They’re not scared,” he asserted. Just then, a particularly loud roll of thunder boomed overhead and Joly dived back into R’s neck. R could feel him shaking in his arms as he attempted to hush and calm him.

He looked up to see Bossuet, and Feuilly hurtle through the door. R chuckled. A moment later, at the next crack of thunder, Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Jehan bundled in after them.

“Hey,” he whispered into Joly’s hair, “Look who’s here.” Joly blinked up at his older brothers who loitered awkwardly in the doorway.

“You guys aren’t scared of the storm too, are you?” Grantaire asked lightly, smiling a little too knowingly at the crowd in front of him.

“Not at all,” Courfeyrac replied, “We just wanted to make sure that you were ok.”

“That was incredibly thoughtful of you.” Grantaire replied, rolling his eyes.

Ten minutes later everyone had piled onto the bed and Grantaire had produced a packet of biscuits and was sharing them out, not caring if they got crumbs in his bed or not. There was a happy level of friendly chatter. Joly was curled into his side, sucking his thumb. Combeferre had joined them, fresh from his shower.

The talk turned boisterous and then a pillow fight was instigated and no one was really paying attention to the time or the fact that they were making an incredible amount of noise. They were too busy laughing, which of course was the point when Captain Von Trapp appeared in the doorway, face bright red with fury.

The fun ceased immediately, without the man having to say a single word. The seven boys who, only moments before, had been bright and carefree and laughing heartily, were now still as statues. They quickly scampered into their line, faces closed and focused, eyes to the front.

“Did I, or did I not say to you,” Enjolras began, voice hard and cold, “that bedtime was to be strictly observed?”

Grantaire’s heart sank. He briefly considered arguing before realising that ultimately it would be futile.

“You did Sir,” he answered quietly, lowering his eyes to the floor, feeling very much like he should stand in line with the other boys, rather than as a man in his twenties.

“And do you have difficulty in remembering such clear instructions?” Enjolras snapped. 

“Only during thunderstorms,“ Grantaire replied levelly, daring to look Enjolras in the eye. Enjolras remained unimpressed, but his attention was stolen by a stifled giggle from the line of boys. Bossuet was the culprit, but before he could reprimand his son, his eye fell upon Combeferre. His eldest son was trying his best to blend in, to not be noticed, but something obviously caught the Captain’s attention.

“Combeferre, I don’t remember seeing you anywhere after dinner?” he demanded. Combeferre stuttered, trying to say something, anything, obviously caught in the glare of his father’s fury.

“He’s been with me,” Grantaire intervened, drawing the attention back to him, away from the trembling line of children. “We’ve been getting to know each other a little better this evening. But it’s much too late to go into all that now. Come on children, you heard your father, go to bed immediately.”

The boys scampered from the room at full pace, Combeferre shooting a grateful look at R as he passed.

“Grantaire,” the Captain started as the last of his sons left the room. “I hope you have managed to remember that I am leaving for Vienna tomorrow?”

“Yes, Sir,” he answered quietly. Enjolras observed him in silence for a few moments.

“Will you also remember that the first rule in this house is discipline? I trust that by the time I return, you will have acquired some.”

With that, Enjolras swept from the room, shutting the door behind him. 

Grantaire frowned at the closed door. From tomorrow the Captain would be gone. From tomorrow, things were going to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this so far...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Enjolras is away, the boys will play...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how long it has taken me to update this, but I reward your patience with over 6000 words so don't hate me too much.

Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy to break down and reconstruct the Von Trapp family dynamic. Rome was not built in a day. That first morning after the departure of the Captain, Grantaire knew that the whole household was on the brink of chaos. The nature of that chaos depended greatly on how soon he could get all the boys on his side.

He knew that whatever happened, Joly and Bossuet would pretty much be on board with anything he suggested. Those two were just begging for a bit of positive attention. He was also more confident of Combeferre’s co-operation after the events of the previous night, which would make dealing with Courfeyrac and Bahorel a little bit easier. The weak spots in this strategy were Jehan and Feuilly, so he would need to pay extra special attention there to make sure the two quietest members of the family were not forgotten.

He had remained awake the night before, musing on how he wanted to approach this. He wanted to give the children some positive experiences, to get out into the world, have some fun, see some sights and to get as much out of their holidays as possible before going back to the regimen of school.

At about two o’clock in the morning he had hit upon an idea, his eyes falling upon the curtains flapping in the slight breeze coming under the sash window as the storm died down. The curtains were a heavy, thick fabric, lined with white cotton. To Grantaire they were perfectly acceptable for the job at hand, namely to keep the light out and the heat in. However, the housekeeper had informed him earlier that evening that new ones were on order and were expected on the following day.

It seemed a shame to waste all that fabric. It had plenty of wear left in it. And really, the pattern wasn’t all that noticeable. He pondered, glancing over at the pile of material ready to be turned into shirts and trousers for himself as soon as he had the time and opportunity.

He wondered if the boys would actually care what they were wearing, would mind the unusual pattern, if the purpose of the exercise would be to get as covered in mud and dirt as humanly possible, if they were aware that rips and tears would be positively encouraged?

He finally drifted off to sleep, his mind full of plans and a smile on his face.

Persuading the boys that making your own clothes was not only a valuable life skill but also a fast track to more fun times had been easier than anticipated, especially as Jehan had pretty much pounced on the curtain fabric as soon as Grantaire had entered the room.

It helped that the weather outside was appalling, the rain still falling even though the thunder and lightning had long since passed by. There was universal agreement that making clothes was infinitely more exciting than mathematics, and while there had been a certain amount of dissention from Bahorel and Courfeyrac, they followed Combeferre’s lead and knuckled down to the prospect of some serious sewing. It also helped that R made it clear that he wasn’t giving the boys a pointless task; he took up his needle and stitched shirts and trousers along with the rest of them.

In all, it took three days to make seven shirts, seven pairs of trousers, and there was even some fabric left over for waistcoats for those who wanted them. That first morning had been given over to measuring which had resulted in an awful lot of giggling once the boys had relaxed, realising that they weren’t going to be chastised for enjoying themselves and making a noise.

Jehan and Feuilly teamed up to use those measurements to chalk out the pattern on the fabric ready for cutting. Joly and Bossuet were too young to be allowed to use the fabric scissors, so R put them in charge of counting out how many pieces they needed. It had been fun, messy work with very few squabbles or disagreements. At night, after the boys were in bed, R had stayed up until the early hours making his own shirt and trousers. Although he was tired and sick of sewing he was proud of how much the boys had achieved and how well they worked together.

The sewing had begun in earnest on the second day. R had also challenged them to come up with some ideas of things they would like to do over the summer once all this sewing was done. 

For lunch, he had asked the kitchen staff to prepare some cheeses and cold meats to bring up to the school room rather than the formality of a full meal served in the dining room, something they were only too happy to agree to as it meant less work for them. There had been childish cries of delight at the treat, at the very idea of being allowed to eat in the schoolroom!

That second day R also revolutionised bed time. It seemed absolutely ludicrous to him that all the boys retired to the nursery at seven o’clock in the evening. He knew full well that a lot of the tears and arguments came about because Courf and Bahorel didn’t settle until at least nine o’clock, which meant that Bossuet and Joly were kept up, making them ratty and bad tempered in the morning through lack of sleep.

So, starting that evening, the younger boys went to bed at seven o’clock as usual. Jehan and Feuilly followed at eight o’clock, by which time the younger two were already fast asleep. Courfeyrac and Bahorel retired at nine o’clock. Combeferre got an extra half hour after that.

To Grantaire’s intense surprise, the new routine went down very well indeed. The younger boys went to bed without complaint and the others were all so pleased at the novelty of being allowed to stay up a little bit later that there were no complaints.

When it was just Grantaire and Combeferre in the library a strange silence settled over the pair. Grantaire looked up from his book, slightly taken aback by the curious look on Combeferre’s face.

“What?” R asked, hoping he sounded welcoming enough. Combeferre studied him for a moment.

“I’m trying to decide if you’re real,” Combeferre said, his voice low, his head on one side. R could only smile in confusion, wondering what the boy meant.

“You really mean it, don’t you; you want to take us outside and have picnics and things, like normal children,”

“Yes,” R replied steadily, wondering where this was going.

“Why?”

“Because life lasts no time at all and it’s worth nothing. One breaks one’s neck in living. There will be plenty of time for marching and whistles and work later on.”

Combeferre smiled then, before returning to his book

By the third day, only sewing remained. Not wanting Joly and Bossuet to be left out or at a loose end, R came up with a plan to keep them entertained while the others finished up the final shirts. While the boys filed in for breakfast, R nipped down to the kitchen to beg a set of cups and saucers, and an old teapot from the kitchen staff. In the corner of the school room, R set out a blanket. 

He begged the Butler to present an envelope each to Bossuet and Joly, cordially inviting them to a tea party and asking them to each bring a special friend. An excited babble broke out at the breakfast table over these mysterious invitations and which “special guest” they should take.

Joly wanted to take Bossuet, but Bossuet had his own invitation. Jehan intervened, advising them that perhaps his bear, Semmelweis, might like to attend the tea party. R smiled at Jehan in gratitude for a temper tantrum successfully avoided.

Jehan agreed to oversee the tea party while the others finished up sewing. Every so often, R glanced over to the corner. The boys sat crossed legged on the blanket, Jehan pouring out the very weak tea into the cups, and R couldn’t help but smile as the young boy asked Master Semmelweis if he was sure he wouldn’t take another cup, while Joly giggled in pleasure.

By midday everything was finished and the boys ran off to the nursery to try on their new clothes, jostling for position in front of the mirror while R took the cups, saucers and teapot back down to the kitchen.

When he returned upstairs he was pleased to find them all changed and smiling. Even Courf and Bahorel didn’t seem to have much to complain about, despite the fact that they were all wearing the same outfit. R grinned round at them.

“Right, what do you want to do first?”

+

Armed with baskets, the boys piled out of the house, running down the gravel driveway towards the gate. R unlocked it, grinning as he held it open for them and they streamed out onto the path. He watched them as they filed out, forming an untidy line along the wall, giggling amongst themselves. Combeferre was the last out, moving more stoically, but R noticed how he glanced behind, looking back down the lane in the opposite direction to the town.

“Come on, then,” he instructed cheerfully, leading them towards Salzburg.

In order to have a successful picnic, one needs supplies. R had managed to beg a certain amount of cold meats and cheeses from the kitchen, but they would need some fruit and a few other items as well if seven children and their tutor were to be properly fed, so their first stop was the market.

They made an unlikely group, R in the lead, herding the boys around the city, stopping to point out various landmarks of interest; the churches and the fountains and the interesting architecture in the Old Town.

Bahorel, Jehan and Feuilly had each been given a basket to carry; Bahorel’s was already full but the other two were empty in anticipation of their trip to the market. Combeferre had a basket containing some blankets, a football and some bottles of water, while R, much to everyone’s delight and anticipation, was carrying his guitar case.

R had learnt fairly early on that to keep Courfeyrac out of mischief you simply had to give him some responsibility. The boy longed to be taken seriously, and was less likely to act out if he felt he was being useful, or was required to behave like an adult. With this in mind, R had handed over the shopping list. The look of wonder and delight Courfeyrac had given him had nearly broken his heart as Courf had cheerfully led his brothers towards the fruit seller.

Half an hour later, baskets stuffed with goodies, they headed back along the river towards the mountain and R couldn’t help but smile as they began to climb.

He decided to take them to his favourite place, where the view of the hills rolling into each other was spectacular. They would be completely alone up there. The boys could make as much noise as they liked without disturbing anyone. Once the blanket was unfolded and the food passed around, they fell upon the picnic with gusto.

Once they had eaten the boys split off, amusing themselves in the sunshine. Grantaire sat back, observing their interactions. Courfeyrac and Feuilly were throwing the football around, the loudest boy in the group making an effort to draw the quietest out of his shell. 

Combeferre was sitting with Joly, reading aloud from a book while Joly curled up on the blanket, sucking his thumb. Behind them Bossuet and Jehan were cross-legged on the grass, heads bent together as Jehan showed the smaller boy how to thread daisies together into a chain.

Bahorel sat apart from the others, stretched out on the grass eating an apple while he watched his brothers. R sat sideways, able to keep the boy in his peripheral vision without seeming to watch him too closely. The boy seemed content, relaxed, simply watching the others with his sharp eyes.

“R,” he called out, taking another bite from his apple. Grantaire turned, smiling across at him, giving him his full attention.

“Do you think we could do this every day?”

“Don’t you think you’d soon get bored of it, Bahorel?” he asked in reply, surprised and touched by the boy’s question. Bahorel chewed his lip in consideration.

“I suppose so,” he said after a moment, before jerking his head up again. “Every other day?” he asked cheekily, his eyes sparkling. R chuckled in response.

Jehan looked up from his daisy chain.

“I don’t think I’ve had this much fun since we put superglue on Herr Heydrich’s toothbrush,” he drawled casually, causing a ripple of laughter to filter through the group at the memory. R shook his head in despair.

“I cannot understand how children as nice as you can play such awful tricks on people,” he declared, staring round at the group for an explanation, remembering all too well that frog, not to mention the pine cone.

“Oh it’s easy,” Feuilly spoke up suddenly, a rare event indeed, as he ran past to fetch the ball Courf had thrown wide.

“But why do it?” R persisted. The others shuffled uneasily until Combeferre cleared his throat.

“How else to get father’s attention?” His voice was dry, his eyes piercing into R purposefully, challenging him somehow. R sighed. They were going to have to do something about that.

Joly shuffled over to him, dropping into R’s lap.

“Will you play your guitar please?” he whispered, wrapping his arms round R’s neck as if a cuddle would make R more likely to agree to his request. R chuckled, squeezing the boy in response.

“I can’t with a lap full of you, now, can I?” he replied lightly, trying to untangle the boy. Joly quickly scrambled off him, his little round face full of hope. Well, R didn’t have any choice but to click open the case and bring out his guitar.

He fiddled with the pegs, tuning the strings. The others sat down on the grass, daisy chains and football forgotten.

“What songs do you know?” he asked, looking round the attentive group. He was met with pursed lips and shrugged shoulders. Bahorel crossed his arms, a frown on his face.

“We don’t sing,” he said flatly and Courf nodded in agreement.

“Well, we’ll have to do something about that,” R replied bracingly, strumming a chord.

They started with the basics. He ran through a scale, getting them to ‘la’ along to the notes, warming up their voices, getting used to the sensation. Then he played through a few easy melodies from nursery rhymes, encouraging them to join in the tune, still singing ‘la’s for the time being. Joly and Bossuet were happy to sing along, not at all embarrassed to be outside and singing. The other boys were a touch more reticent, a bit more awkward about joining in.

Bahorel sat scowling a little further away, arms still folded, but for once his brother and usual partner in crime was not in agreement. Courfeyrac sat forward, his eyes watching R’s fingers travel up and down the fret board.

R decided to raise the bar a bit, playing a campfire song he had sung as a child. He ran through it a few times, the boys listening attentively to the lyrics. Jehan was the first to join in, his soft voice contrasting against R’s deeper tones as he began the second chorus. Courfeyrac, not to be outdone, soon followed. One by one the other boys started to sing as well. 

In the end he taught them three songs. He was impressed at how in tune they were, even the smaller boys. They had good ears and were quick to learn. He even managed to split them off, teaching them how to sing in the round; Combeferre, Courf and Bahorel starting first, the others joining in with the first line just as the first three started their second line. There was a fair amount of begging and pleading for just one more when R finally moved to set his guitar aside, apologising sincerely because he was having a great time too, but it really was time to be heading home.

They were sorry to gather up the blankets and pack up the leftovers. R ended up carrying Joly on his back, the smallest boy clinging to him, his arms round his tutor’s neck. His head was heavy, resting on R’s shoulder, his soft breath warm against the man’s neck as he slept peacefully all the way home. Ferre carried R’s guitar so the man didn’t have to worry about dropping either his precious instrument or the small boy on his back. Bahorel was happy to carry two baskets, while Courf held Bossuet’s hand tightly, the younger boy stumbling with fatigue, grateful for his older brother’s support.

Joly was put straight to bed when they got home, while the other six took dinner in R’s room so they wouldn’t disturb their sleeping brother in the nursery as they were far too tired to dress up for dinner. The butler pursed his lips but nodded, arranging for a small supper of eggs to be brought upstairs. In the end the boys retired to bed early, the fresh air and the exercise rendering them exhausted. 

In the morning they were bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to go again. They scrambled down to breakfast, chattering loudly, pushing and shoving in high spirits as they wondered what R would have in store for them that day.

+

Three weeks passed by in a flash, the hot weather meaning they spent most of their time out of doors.

Each morning at breakfast they discussed possible activities for the day. Everyone was allowed to suggest something and each boy was granted a vote, with R having the final say on the day’s activities.

He took them out for walks around the town to show them the sights. They visited the Hohensalzburg fortress, exploring the medieval building with delight. Combeferre read through all the literature and information boards, while the younger boys ran up and down, their imaginations running wild as they pretended to attack and defend the battlements.

They went into the woods and back up the mountains, hiking and exploring. Grantaire would sit back, Combeferre settling a small distance away with a book while the younger children scampered off in all directions, seeking out interesting flora and fauna, bringing back flowers and other exciting items they found for R’s attention.

Sometimes he brought his sketchbook, drawing the scenery or sometimes the boys; Bossuet and Joly playing a game amongst themselves with sticks and stones, or the way Jehan would sit in the grass, scribbling in a notebook of his own while his hair fell over his eyes.

He noticed Feuilly watching him, the boy’s eyes fixed on the way R’s hands moved over the paper. Grantaire tore out a blank page from his sketchbook, holding it out for Feuilly to take. After a moment of uncertainty, the boy accepted the paper and the accompanying pencil. He shuffled over to where R was sitting, looking over at what the man had already drawn.

R showed him some tricks; how to draw perspective, the importance of layering. Feuilly listened, enraptured. R watched him as he moved his pencil over the paper, sketching out the landscape in front of him, his hand confident and steady. 

Grantaire smiled at him, complimenting the drawing. Feuilly blushed, not quite smiling. He handed the drawing over, ducking his head, before jumping up and running over to where his older brothers were kicking a ball around. R let him go.

Another day, having discovered from the house keeper that there were bicycles stored in the cellar, they spent a morning cleaning them up and oiling the brakes before heading out in the afternoon. Joly was too small to cycle on his own, but Bossuet had learnt to ride a bike in the spring and was confident enough to join them out on the quiet roads surrounding the house.

Joly sat in a little chair behind R, and the man could hear him laughing merrily behind him, catching a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of chubby hands held out, enjoying the rush of the wind as it passed.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel raced ahead, trying to outdo each other as to who could go the fastest. Jehan and Feuilly seemed content to cycle side by side, while Combeferre stayed behind with Bossuet, keeping a watchful eye on his younger brother.

As the days progressed, the boys lost their pallor. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Feuilly broke out into freckles, while Bossuet got a burnt nose which had to be rubbed each night with cream.

On the days they didn’t leave the grounds they strayed out into the garden, chasing each other round the bushes and walkways, playing hide and seek in the many walled gardens. R was thrilled to see them running about, shouting and calling, making as much racket as seven children should be making in the holidays, not caring at all who heard them.

He would have liked to have taken them camping, but he felt he was pushing his luck. While the housekeeper and the kitchen staff seemed happy and grateful with the changes he had implemented, he was very aware of the silent disapproval of the Butler. He wondered if the man had been telling tales to his master, writing to Enjolras to inform him of the total destruction of the previous regime, or whether the man was simply waiting for Enjolras’s return, to lay out Grantaire’s sins one of top of the other.

R found he couldn’t care. When he looked around at the boys in his charge, how bright and vibrant and happy they were now, Enjolras’s fury and disapproval seemed very far away.

As they sat around the dinner table one night, tucking in hungrily to their roast chicken, R grinned round at them all.

“Tomorrow I’m going to teach you how to climb trees,” he stated. “Sound good?”

The chorus of woops and cheers in response filled his heart with joy.

+

Enjolras drove along the road towards his home, feeling his heart lift at the sight of the familiar scenery. Beside him in the open-top car, her hair wrapped in a headscarf, protecting it from the breeze, was Mona. 

Baroness Mona Parnasse was the main reason for his many trips to Vienna. He had met her at a ball; the glittering woman at the centre of a large group of friends had simply marched over to him with a glass of champagne. She had introduced herself with a sparkling smile and had spent the rest of the evening engaging him in conversation.

Captain Enjolras knew he wasn’t much company. He had only been out that evening because he had been visiting Marius Pontmercy, an old friend from his school days. The children liked him immensely, so much so that they called him Uncle Marius and they looked forward to his visits which had become fewer and further apart in the years after Enjolras’s wife had died.

Then Marius had convinced him to come to see him in Vienna, had talked him into attending that ridiculous get-together and Enjolras had been just about to leave when Mona had waltzed ever so effortlessly into his life.

In truth, Vienna was too noisy for Enjolras. His favourite part was the drive home, feeling the familiarity of the place seep under his skin, and this time Mona was by his side.

Marius was here too, of course, travelling in the back of the car, delighted with the invitation. It would have been highly improper of Enjolras to invite the Baroness to his home by herself and so Marius had agreed to act as chaperone, an arrangement which was satisfying to everybody concerned.

He glanced over to the woman in the passenger seat. He still wasn’t sure why she liked him so much. She was his complete opposite. She was graceful and easy in company, surrounded by a delightful circle of friends. She was fashionable and popular, with an excellent eye, impeccable taste, sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. She was a veritable flower, steadily dragging Enjolras out of his shell. He found the attention she bestowed upon him flattering and irresistible. 

He had been back to Vienna to meet with her several times, asking her to dance and sitting with her at parties. He usually found these events tiresome and boring, filled with people with which he had nothing in common. Somehow she had made it all bearable.

And now he was bringing her back to Salzburg, to his house to meet his children. His heart was in his mouth, terrified that the city girl would hate the country, but so far she had done little but praise everything she had seen.

As they sped down a country lane, their attention was drawn to screams and war cries over their heads.

“Good heavens, what is this?” Mona exclaimed, looking up with wide eyes. 

There were clearly figures hanging from the trees, hollering and shouting and calling to each other along the road.

Enjolras spared them a brief glance before returning his attentions to the road.

“Oh nothing,” he replied dismissively, “Just some local urchins.”

As they continued on their way, Enjolras frowned. There had been something very familiar about one of those boys. The big one in the last tree had looked awfully like Bahorel. But it couldn’t have been. He shook himself, concentrating on driving the car, pushing the thought out of his mind.

+

“This really is exciting for me, being here with you,” Mona sighed as she walked towards the lake, looking out at the view. Enjolras chuckled lightly. On their arrival he had instructed the staff to arrange for afternoon tea to be served on the terrace in order to make the most of the summer sunshine.

He moved to stand beside her, pleased with her praise, smiling faintly.

“Trees, lakes, mountains,” he muttered, feigning dismissiveness. “Once you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all,” he shrugged. She turned her pretty face to him, giving him a knowing look.

“That is not what I meant and you know it.” She pouted, a twinkle in her eyes that he found entrancing. 

“Oh you mean me, I’m exciting?”

“Is that so impossible to believe?” she smiled gently, teasingly.

“No, just highly improbable.” He smiled fully as she rolled her eyes at him.

“There you go, running yourself down again,” she sighed regretfully.

“Well, I am a dangerous driver,” he quipped in response. Mona chuckled girlishly at his little joke as they turned, strolling along the path beside the lake.

“You know, you’re much less of a riddle when I see you here, Enjolras,” Mona purred, tucking herself into the man’s side as they strolled along beside the water.

“In my natural habitat?” his voice was light and gently mocking, enjoying the warmth of her by his side. 

“Are you trying to say that I’m more at home here among the birds and the flowers and the wind that moves through the trees like a restless sea?” he continued, Mona still laughing at him, her painted, full lips wide around her white teeth.

“More at home here than in Vienna?” his voice took on a slightly darker edge, though he remained smiling. “In all your glittering salons, gossiping with bores I detest, soaking myself in champagne, stumbling about to waltzes by Strauss I can’t even remember. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Mona looked up at him brightly, nodding at him.

“Now whatever gave you that idea?” he stated seriously before lowering his gaze, smiling at her renewed laughter. She was so pretty when she laughed. It had been one of the things he had first noticed about her. There hadn’t been laughter like that in his life for far too long.

The Baroness turned back to the view, complimenting how lovely and peaceful it was, wondering how on earth Enjolras could bear to leave it as often as he did. Enjolras deflected the question, throwing out a careless answer; that by leaving it he gave the impression of being madly active in his life, that it suggested a life filled with purpose.

Mona was not fooled. She stepped into his personal space, reaching up to adjust his collar.

“Could it be running away from memories?” she murmured, knowing she was treading a fine line; that at any moment Enjolras would clam up on her and the discussion would be over. To her surprise Enjolras fixed her with a strangely open and vulnerable look, humming his agreement after a moment’s pause.

“Or perhaps,” he started, after a moment’s thoughtful silence, “just searching for a reason to stay.”

The atmosphere sat upon them heavily as the two adults looked at each other, the one compassionate while the other wrinkled his forehead, as though suddenly conscious of his own vulnerability. Finally, Mona turned, catching Enjolras’s hand and steering him back towards the patio.

“Oh I hope that’s why you’ve been coming to Vienna so often,” she commented lightly, “Or were there other distractions there?” She was relieved to see Enjolras smile.

“I would hardly call you a mere distraction,” he replied. The Baroness folded her arms behind her, moving to stand directly before Enjolras, looking up at him warmly.

“What would you call me, then?” she teased.

Enjolras pretended to consider for a moment, before replying very gently.

“Lovely.” 

Mona Parnasse blushed, lowering her eyes demurely.

They moved to join Marius on the patio where he was tucking into his third strudel. Marius enjoyed staying with Enjolras; the food and the surroundings were so vastly different to his own humble background. He had missed his friend very much and it was delightful to be able to spend some quality time together once more.

As Mona fussed around in her handbag, seeking out a cigarette and her filter, Enjolras turned about the patio, looking confused.

“I wonder where the children are?” he mused, staring around as if noticing for the first time that they were missing.

Parnasse took a long drag on her cigarette before replying that they had obviously heard that she was coming and had gone into hiding.

Truthfully she was quite nervous of meeting Enjolras’s children. He spoke about them quite often and with pride, especially about what they did at school. While she wasn’t entirely sure of all their names and ages, she knew how important it was to Enjolras for her to meet them. That she was being introduced at all marked a significant shift in their relationship.

“I was hoping they would be here to welcome you,” he muttered, disapproval colouring his tone. He strode towards the house, leaving Mona in Marius’s capable hands.

As soon as Enjolras was out of earshot, Marius turned to Parnasse, scanning the Baroness’s face keenly.

“Well?” he asked, eyes bright. She exhaled coolly, staring him down.

“Well what?” she replied.

“Have you made up Enjolras’s mind yet? Do I hear wedding bells?” he pressed, eagerly. She snorted, shaking her head.

Marius was a dreamer, he loved the idea of love and he was delighted that his old friend Enjolras had finally met someone who had brought him out of his shell after the death of his wife. He was anxious that his friend should get a happy ending after so much suffering and heartache.

“Never you mind, Marius,” Parnasse warned. “I am terribly fond of Enjolras and I will not have you toying with us.” 

She turned away, her nose in the air, but Marius insisted, begging her to tell him some details. Finally she gave in, turning back with a suspiciously bright grin on her face. 

“Well, I feel I may be here on approval,” she whispered conspiratorially. Marius agreed. That Enjolras had brought her here was definitely a good sign.

“If I know you, Mona Parnasse, and I do,” he grinned back at her, “You will find a way. You and Enjolras are like family to me,” he continued earnestly. “That’s why I want to see you two get married. I want you to be happy.” 

Their attention was suddenly caught by movement at the end of the veranda. A girl emerged from under the trees, one of the messenger girls by the look of it, pushing a bicycle. She stopped by the side of the house, rather than carrying on to the side door. She dropped the bike down on the grass, apparently unaware that she was being watched. Seizing a stone off the ground, she threw it lightly up to a window, not hard enough to smash it, just to rattle softly against the pane.

Before Marius or the Baroness could say anything, Enjolras reappeared, marching along the veranda towards the girl.

“What are you doing there?” he challenged, glaring down at the girl who started with fright.

“Oh, Captain Von Trapp,” she stuttered, trying to recover herself.

+

Éponine felt vaguely ill, looking up at the Captain glaring down at her. Suddenly she understood why Combeferre was so terrified of being caught out of doors, how much courage it must have taken to sneak out, knowing what would happen if he was caught. She determined never to laugh at him again.

Enjolras’s glare was terrifying. She tried to find words, to think of something quickly that wouldn’t get her into too much trouble and would avoid exposing Combeferre.

She hadn’t seen him in weeks, not since the night of the storm. She was worried the boy had been caught sneaking back in and hated to think that he was in trouble on her account. Having heard that the Captain was in Vienna she determined to sneak into the grounds, to see if she could catch Combeferre’s attention. So far her stones to the school room window had gone unanswered.

+

“I was just looking for… I didn’t know you were…” she spluttered, her face pale at having been caught, before suddenly drawing herself up straight, bringing her right arm up straight in salute. Standing behind his friend, Marius saw Enjolras’s hands twitch into fists as the young girl shouted out the Nazi greeting that echoed strangely in the peaceful grounds of the house.

“Who are you?” Enjolras somehow managed to keep control of his temper, sensing Marius and the Baroness coming up behind him to see what was going on.

The girl lowered her arm, reaching into her messenger bag.

“I have a telegram for Herr Pontmercy,” she replied. Marius started forward, accepting the telegram from her thin fingers.

“All right, you’ve delivered your telegram now get out,” Enjolras stated, not taking his eyes from the girl. She shot him a dirty look before she took off back towards the trees, taking up her bicycle and peddling hard towards the gate and the world beyond.

“Oh Enjolras, she’s just a girl,” Parnasse walked over, taking his arm.

“Yes, and I’m just an Austrian,” he replied flatly, allowing no room for further argument. Marius, nose in his telegram, did not seem to be paying attention to Enjolras’s tone or he might have thought twice about what he said next.

“What’s going to happen, is going to happen. Just make sure it doesn’t happen to you,” he said carelessly, not looking up from his telegram.

Enjolras spun round, eyes blazing, slamming his hand down on the concrete balustrade, something that surely must have hurt but he didn’t even flinch.

“Marius, don’t you ever say that again!” he roared. Parnasse took a step back in shock, while Marius looked up at him with a surprised and hurt look on his face.

“You know I have no political convictions,” he replied defensively, “can I help it if other people do?”

“Oh yes, you can help it,” Enjolras spat, looking at Marius with disgust. “You must help it.”

Marius frowned, looking somewhat taken aback, before slinking away back inside the house.

Enjolras turned back to the balustrade, trying to calm his breathing, repressing the surge of anger in his gut. Parnasse moved over to him, nudging him gently with her elbow.

“Hello,” she murmured gently, her voice soft and soothing to Enjolras’s ears. “You’re far away, where are you?” She took another step towards him, resting a hand on his forearm, her warmth grounding him, a pleasant reprieve from the cold stone beneath his fingers.

“In a world that’s disappearing, I’m afraid,” he muttered, his voice despondent.

“Is there any way I can bring you back to the world I’m in?” She was gratified to see him turning, his shoulders relaxing as he almost smiled at her, but the smile was gone as quickly as it had come when he gazed over her shoulder.

The frown returned, his shoulders stiffened and just as she was about to turn, to ask what it was that he had seen that displeased him so much, she heard it; the sound of shouting children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if Parnasse seems a little OC at the moment. For those of you not familiar with the Sound of Music, I can only apologise and ask for you to trust me on this.
> 
> Joly's teddy bear is one of my favourite things - Ignaz Semmelweis was a famous Austrian renowned for introducing hand disinfection standards in the 19th century.
> 
> Thanks for all your sweet comments :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is back from Vienna and he is not at all amused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has sort of been beta'd by my Other Half, but they're a little bit hopeless (in the nicest possible way) so I apologise for any and all errors.

"Come out of that water at once!"

Enjolras didn't think he had ever been so angry. He was still reeling with fury from the episode with the messenger girl combined with Marius's ridiculous political views, when he spotted, or rather heard, a boat out on the lake.

As it came into view, a cry went up as he was spotted on the shore. His blood pressure rose as he realised the rabble in the boat was actually his sons. His eyes roved over the group; Bahorel at the front with Joly on his knee, Feuilly next then Bossuet in the middle, and finally Courfeyrac, Jehan and Combeferre sitting at the back. Behind them all at the tiller was their tutor.

Enjolras's mind flashed over all his other brief dealings with Grantaire, his treacherous mind wondering if he had ever seen the man grin like that before. The tutor’s face was ruddy and tanned, brown curls fluttering in the slight breeze.

For a moment, Enjolras had stood speechless at the spectacle before him, but then Bossuet had stood up to wave, calling out to his father. Feuilly had tried to grab him, but it was too late. The crowded boat rocked once, twice and then over it went, tipping the merry crew into the water.

One by one, heads bobbed to the surface. The water wasn't too deep this close to the bank and Enjolras breathed with relief as he spotted Bahorel with Joly clinging fast to his neck. He expected his youngest to be in floods of tears but it was quite the opposite; the small boy was quite clearly laughing.

Enjolras threw the latch on the gate and held it open, waiting imperiously for the first of his wet sons to obey his command, unaware of Parnasse standing just behind him, her face barely held together as she attempted not to laugh. One by one they climbed out of the water, still laughing and shouting amongst themselves, the older boys hanging back to make sure the younger ones were ok, Courfeyrac lifting Bossuet onto the bank before heaving himself out. Last of all came Grantaire, thigh deep in the lake, his shoulders braced as he pulled the toppled boat towards the shore.

Enjolras stared at Grantaire’s back for a moment, taking the sight in. Soaked curls hung heavily around his head as the sunlight sparkled off the water droplets that clung to them and through his shirt Enjolras could make out the firm muscles of his arms. Then his hand fumbled at his pocket and he drew the whistle to his lips.

+

At the sound of the whistle, Grantaire stopped dead in the water. There was a moment of confusion as the children stared at each other, the noise alien to their ears having not heard it for some weeks now. Then they leapt into action. As Grantaire watched from where he stood in the mud, soaked to the bone, he felt his heart sink. In that moment he almost hated Enjolras.

“Straight line!” the man barked, as though addressing soldiers, not children. The children scuttled to obey, arranging themselves into their old order and it was as though Grantaire had just arrived; their shoulders set, eyes fixed forward. Faces that had previously been glowing full of life, smiles wide, were now closed and rigid and it hurt Grantaire to see it.

He watched as Captain Enjolras inspected his ranks before stepping back and it was then that Grantaire noticed the delicate woman standing to the side, her carefully coiffured hair, expensive suit and carefully assumed expression. Maybe it was the water, but suddenly Grantaire felt cold. He felt her eyes sweep over him, a slight disapproving twitch to her top lip, before her gaze was drawn back to the motley assembly before her and Grantaire felt disconcerted, almost naked; as though that brief glance had seen into his very soul.

But Enjolras wasn’t looking at him. The man hadn’t even glanced his way; the full force of his penetrating glare was currently focused on his sons who were trying not to squirm beneath his attentions. Enjolras cleared his throat.

“This is Baroness Parnasse,” he spoke quietly, his voice cold as he attempted to maintain a sense of decorum, as though the woman beside him had not been there to witness the sight of them toppling into the lake.

“And these,” Enjolras paused, casting another glance over the boys before continuing, “are my children.”

“How do you do,” the Baroness spoke with fashionable politeness, her voice all velvet. The children wisely remained silent, as though waiting for their father’s wrath.

He let the silence hang in the air for a moment longer before barking out a final set of orders.

“All right, go inside, dry off, clean up, change your clothes and report back here. Immediately!” 

Grantaire marvelled at how Enjolras managed to breathe while giving out orders at such breakneck speed. At the final word, the boys scampered off out of sight, the slap of their wet sandals against the stone echoing behind them.

He moved to follow them, to offer them words of reassurance, of comfort. This wasn’t their fault and he would be damned before he saw them punished for his own decisions. He would do whatever he could to make it right. His head was so full he almost didn’t hear Enjolras call out to him.

“Grantaire you will stay here, please.”

It was an order, despite the ‘please’; the authoritative tone made that quite clear. It grated on Grantaire’s nerves but he stopped nonetheless, somewhat resigned to his fate. As he turned, he locked eyes briefly with the Baroness who was shifting, looking most uncomfortable. Perhaps sensing the potential for an unpleasant scene, she gracefully bowed out, heading towards the house. 

Then they were alone.

Grantaire could feel his heart pounding in his chest. There was a strange thrill to be found standing before the Captain, to be subject to that gaze, the fury almost tangible. In all the times he had been in trouble with his father, his teachers, the Abbot Father, even the Master of Postulants, it had never felt like this. He watched as Enjolras put the whistle back in his pocket, the action serving as an opportunity for the Captain to formulate his next words carefully.

“Now, Grantaire, I want a truthful answer from you,” Enjolras spoke harshly, as though he didn’t think the scruffy young man before him was capable of such a thing. Grantaire straightened his spine and relaxed his shoulders, drawing himself up to meet this Captain, this Enjolras, head on.

“Yes, Captain?” he smiled sweetly, his tone innocent.

“Is it possible, or could I have just imagined it,” Enjolras’s tone was deadly with sugar but Grantaire found he really couldn’t care. “Have my children, by any chance, been climbing trees today?”

Grantaire could not suppress the smirk that played across his lips at that; half at the sight of the enraged man before him, half at the memory of that afternoon. The boys had enjoyed themselves immensely. Even Combeferre had abandoned his usual reserve, entering into competition with Courfeyrac to see who could go the highest, meanwhile there had been a brief moment of terror when Bossuet had nearly plummeted ten feet, except that Bahorel was beneath him, holding him steady. Then Jehan and Feuilly had worked together to climb their tree. It had been a joy of an afternoon and no matter what happened next, it had all been thoroughly worth it.

“Yes, Captain,” he replied, still with a smile, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I see,” Enjolras looked as though he was trying very hard not to burst a blood vessel at such a casual response. “And where, may I ask, did they get those…” It seemed as though words had finally failed the Captain as he gestured wildly in the air, as though unable to locate the correct term. 

“Play clothes?” Grantaire suggested helpfully. He saw the muscle in Enjolras’s jaw tighten.

“Oh is that what you call them?”

“We made them, the boys and I, from the drapes that used to hang in my bedroom. They still had plenty of wear left. The boys have been everywhere in them.”

Enjolras’s composure slipped all together, his face drawing into a dark frown of fury and all Grantaire could do was stare and marvel at the expressiveness of it, far too caught up to pay attention to his own sense of self-preservation. Enjolras advanced upon him, slow and purposeful.

“Do you mean to tell me that my children have been roaming about Salzburg in nothing but some old drapes?!”

For a moment Grantaire thought Enjolras would hit him but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He stuck out his jaw, his eyes alight as he nodded, almost laughing with the absurdity of it all.

“And they’ve been having a most marvellous time!” He crowed, feeling jubilant.

They stared at each other for a moment, Enjolras mere inches from Grantaire’s face, the older man towering over the younger in an attempt to intimidate him.

“They have uniforms,” he said at last, but Grantaire merely scoffed in response.

“You mean straightjackets, surely! How can children do all the things they should if they’re too busy worried about spoiling their precious clothing?” he scorned, unable to keep the acid from his tongue.

Enjolras bristled, glaring at him.

“They’ve never complained,” he growled, turning away, his hands grasped together at the small of his back.

“Oh, they wouldn’t dare!” Grantaire shot back, feeling rather light headed. “They love you too much. They fear you too much -”

“I don’t wish you to discuss my children in this manner.” Enjolras interrupted him, his tone hard and final. He was pacing now, his face closed as he waltzed about the patio, but Grantaire paid no heed, ploughing on regardless.

“Well you’ve got to hear from someone, you’re never home long enough to know them.”

He knew he should stop talking. He should stop talking right now, he should have stopped talk about five minutes ago but somehow he just couldn’t. He couldn’t let this man just walk in here and stomp all over these wonderful kids, not after all that had been achieved in the past few weeks.

“I said, I don’t want to hear any more from you about my children,” Enjolras spoke a bit louder, the warning in his voice all too clear.

“I know you don’t but you’ve got to,” the words poured out of his mouth, almost unbidden, and there was a shocked silence. Grantaire never had been very good at leaving silences empty; they required filling. He took a deep breath.

“Now take Combeferre,” Grantaire began, but Enjolras seemed to snap back to himself, moving as though to walk away, his hand raised as though to block the man’s words, to stop them breaking through his barriers. 

“He’s not a child any more. One of these days you’re going to wake up and find he’s a man and you won’t even know him. And Courf, he’s a bright boy who wants to be a man like you and there’s no one to show him how.” Grantaire was talking quickly now, the words spilling out of him like a breached dam. Enjolras spun round on the spot, his eyes blazing.

“Don’t you dare tell me about my son!” he roared, outraged, but Grantaire was unimpressed and did not so much as flinch.

“Feuilly could tell you about him if you let him get close to you, he notices everything,” he continued. “And Jehan pretends he’s tough not to show how hurt he is when you brush him aside, the way you do all of them.”

“That will do,” Enjolras tried to interrupt.

“Bahorel I don’t know about yet but someone has to find out about him –”

“I said that will do,” he said more forcefully

“And the little ones just want to be loved,” Grantaire gasped, his heart on the cusp of exploding with pain, pride, fear and love for this darling little family. He pressed forward, almost as though to touch Enjolras’s arm, but the Captain shied away from him, stepping to the side, his face closed and indifferent.

“I don’t care to hear anything further from you about my sons,” he said, walking away and it hurt Grantaire to watch him go.

“I am not finished yet, Captain,” he called out angrily, treacherous hot tears prickling behind his eyes. He always did cry when he was angry or passionate. Enjolras span round to face him, face furious again and for a moment Grantaire couldn’t breathe, bracing for the words to come.

“Oh yes you are, Captain!”

There was an awful silence as Enjolras’s shouted words echoed around the garden. Finally, Enjolras coughed.

“Grantaire,” he corrected, his voice quieter, no longer angry.

The two men stood there, staring at each other, panting hard in the aftermath of the row. Grantaire could feel his lower lip tremble and he bit down on it to keep it in check, to supress the cloud of despair that threatened to consume him. He’d done it now. Why, _oh why_ could he not keep his big mouth shut?

“Now,” Enjolras was back in business mode, his brief lapse of control thoroughly squashed and he fixed Grantaire with a steely, firm eye.

“You will pack your bags this minute and return to the Abbey.”

It was pretty much what Grantaire had expected to hear but it still hurt. It hurt in the very core of his being. 

Before he could respond, to agree or to fight or anything else, the Captain’s head snapped round towards the house, his attention caught by something; a sound. It took a moment but then Grantaire heard it too and his heart leapt in his chest. The soft sound of the boys singing filtered down the veranda.

+

Enjolras was feeling calmer now. This idiot boy, this presumptuous postulant, would be back in the Abbey before sundown and everything would be back to normal. But then that sound had started, those voices, diverting his attention.

“What’s that?” he asked, somewhat foolishly, and for that he earned a foolish answer.

“It’s singing,” Grantaire replied, softly.

For once there was no smirk, no sarcastic undertone to the reply. If anything, Grantaire’s voice sounded a little too quiet, a little broken, as though the simple answer to his question had come unbidden, the boy’s mind elsewhere. Enjolras sighed, impatiently.

“Yes, I realise it is singing. _Who_ is singing?”

Grantaire met his eyes and Enjolras caught his breath at that moment, something dull and unfamiliar poking at his chest.

“The children. I taught them how to sing, and Combeferre can play a little on the guitar –”

But Enjolras was no longer listening. He turned on his heel and marched up the stairs, through the doors into the house to see for himself, his mind buzzing with the sounds coming from within.

The voices lead him down the corridors, teasing him, drawing him further in. It was a familiar tune, a song he had sung as a boy in the choir; his heart remembered it, even if his head hadn’t recognised it at first.

There they were, in the drawing room, standing in a neat little formation of two rows. He watched them from the door, captivated. Combeferre strummed carefully, glancing at his fingers on the frets as he tried to remember just how R had taught him. Next to him stood Courfeyrac and Bahorel. In front of them were Jehan, Feuilly, Bossuet and Joly, singing in a simple but attractive harmony.

They finished to a polite round of applause from their audience, Parnasse and Marius, the latter’s enthusiasm outweighing the former’s fixed smile. Joly then shyly marched forward, holding out a little bouquet of edelweiss which the baroness accepted gracefully. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile at the simple gesture.

An intake of breath from Courfeyrac drew Enjolras’s attention to the fact that he had been spotted. When he looked up it was to the faces of seven children trying very hard to hide their trepidation. It pained him to realise that Grantaire had been right. His children feared him, or at least his reaction. When had that happened?

Enjolras loved his children and was fiercely proud of them. He had tried to do his best by them, to lead them. He knew it wasn’t perfect. They missed their mother and he was a poor substitute but he had tried. To see them look at him the way they did right now caused a massive shift in his world. He thought back to the lake, to that unbridled joy, how relaxed they had been, how happy in each other’s company. 

Cautiously, he stepped forward, hoping that his face was communicating the love and pride he currently felt.

Joly bounced into his arms first, that darling little boy, closely followed by Bossuet. Soon he was at the centre of a giant hug, each of his children clutching him tightly.

“Why, Enjolras,” he turned to see Mona smiling up at him, “you never told me how enchanting your children are.”

A movement by the door caught his eye and he struggled to turn, to follow it, catching a glimpse of brown curls before they disappeared and he thought he heard the creak of the tread on the stairs. He untangled himself from his sons, muttering promises of his return, before darting out of the door.

“Grantaire,” he called, wincing at his tone but really he needed the man to stop and this was the only way he knew how. Grantaire, half way up the stairs, stopped dead in his tracks, pausing a moment before finally turning around.

He felt the heat rise in his cheeks, remembering their altercation on the patio. He took a sharp breath.

“I behaved badly. I apologise.” The words sounded stilted and sour in his mouth. Apologies did not come easily to him and it showed. To his surprise, Grantaire’s expression softened slightly, a flash of something indescribable crossing the young man’s face.

“I’m far too outspoken, it’s one of my worst faults,” he replied softly, keeping his eyes on the ground, his cheeks burning as though he had been slapped. Enjolras swallowed, determined to press on.

“You were right,” his voice sounded strange, his throat thick and dry and suddenly he was desperate for a glass of water. “I don’t know my children.”

Grantaire descended two or three steps, a tentative smile on his face as he clutched the bannister.

“There’s still time, Captain,” he reassured, “they want so much to be close to you.”

It was strange, this careful conversation. When they had been shouting they had been mere inches apart. Now the words were softer yet they were separated by a small flight of stairs. Enjolras looked up at him, trying to find the words to express how he felt, to explain how the ground beneath his feet had suddenly disappeared and yet he found that he didn’t much mind.

“You brought music back into the house. I’d forgotten.” He was lost in memory, his voice tremulous, betraying.

Grantaire gave him a final small, sad smile before turning once again to go. Enjolras started forward, breaking free of his recollections.

“Grantaire,” he called out, bringing the young man to a halt. “I want you to stay.”

The words hung heavily in the air. Slowly, Grantaire turned around, a look of incomprehension on his face. Enjolras coughed with embarrassment.

“I _ask_ you to stay.”

“If I can be of any help?” Grantaire shrugged, shaking his head slightly but now Enjolras smiled at him, a genuine smile of warmth.

“You have already. More than you know.”

Enjolras turned then, walking back to his children.

+

Grantaire watched him go, feeling vaguely numb before a small smile spread across his face. When he got back to his room he threw himself down on his bed. He was still damp, his clothes wet through and smelling very strongly of lake water and his hair was going to be completely unmanageable but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

He stared up at the ceiling, enjoying the feeling of warmth that clutched at his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh bless their little hopeless and oblivious socks!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baroness Parnasse does some plotting and there's a party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now, some of this chapter might sound a bit familiar...  
> (its not plagiarism if it's your own work!)
> 
> cw for discussion of Nazis

Everything in the Von Trapp household had changed. Gone were the grey uniforms and the whistles and the long periods of silence. The house bubbled with natural chatter. Grantaire looked around the room at the boys, their faces bright and cheerful. Eventually his gaze found Enjolras and he felt a now familiar knot of warmth coil in his gut.

Over the past week or so he had come to know his employer a little better. Far from being the terrifying, cold and sharp terror that Grantaire had imagined him to be, scratching the surface he found a reserved but warm gentleman who had a laugh that was rare but infectious. He had a good humour when he felt relaxed and trusted the company around him.

It was plain that Grantaire had seriously misjudged just how much Enjolras adored his sons. Now that such a barrier had been broken between them, the man was free and easy with his touches and words of encouragement. He smiled and applauded and encouraged his children in their endeavours. And every so often that smile would find Grantaire and the young man felt his breath freeze in his lungs.

Enjolras had arranged for the piano tuner to visit that afternoon to give some much-needed attention to the instrument in the music room. Now, Grantaire sat down, preparing to accompany Jehan who had been practising a piece that he wished to perform for his father.

Enjolras smiled over at Grantaire just as the man began to play and Grantaire couldn’t help but return it.

+

Mona Parnasse was bored. When Enjolras had invited her to join him in Salzburg she had no idea she would be spending nearly all of her time battling his children for the man’s attention. The children were sweet, and no doubt talented, but there was a time and a place. 

Parnasse believed that children should be seen and not heard, or preferably _not_ seen and not heard. They had a nanny, so surely they didn’t need to spend their entire evening cluttering up the place and irritating the rest of the house with their presence.

And that was another thing; the nanny. She cast a critical eye over the scruffy youth at the piano, his fingers flying over the keys. She looked to her left to where Enjolras was staring intently, not at his son, but at his son’s tutor. There was a slight colour to the normally pale cheeks, and a softness in those usually steely blue eyes.

Yes, she was going to have to do something about the nanny quite soon.

The piece came to an end and there was a round of applause. Enjolras rose to hug his son who blushed before skipping off to join his brothers. Enjolras remained at the piano, passing congratulations to the pianist.

“I am really very much impressed,” Enjolras was wearing an intense smile and the other man blushed to find that steady gaze focused upon him. He ducked his head, shrugging his shoulders.

“He’s your son, Captain,” he smiled back, finally looking up at the older man before him. For a moment they locked eyes, the father and the tutor, before Parnasse decided enough was enough. She rose to her feet, coughing slightly.

Enjolras suddenly seemed to remember himself. He turned and walked away from the piano, returning to Mona’s side so he could accompany her from the room.

As they left, she threw a careless few words over her shoulder to the tutor who was a few paces behind.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” she asked, attempting to keep the frostiness out of her tone.

“Well, I’m not sure I’ll make a very good monk,” Grantaire answered honestly, a rueful smile upon his face. Enjolras smiled at the comment but Parnasse bristled slightly.

“If you have any problems, I’d be happy to help you.”

+

Marius pounced upon Enjolras as they entered the parlour.

“Enjolras, you know what you should do?” he said eagerly, pressing his hands together. Enjolras smiled at him indulgently.

“Do share, Marius. What is it that I should do?”

“You should enter your boys to the Salzburg Folk Festival.”

There was a gasp of delight from the boys as they looked to each other, whispering with delight, but Enjolras frowned.

“They’d be the talk of the festival, they’re fresh and original –”

“No,” Enjolras interrupted him, his tone flat. “Absolutely not. My children do not sing in public.”

Marius visibly deflated and the whispers of delight rapidly descended into murmurs of disappointment. However, with a glance at Enjolras’s dark and firm face, Marius conceded defeat.

As the chatter started up again and the suggestion was made for more music, Mona suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Wasn’t it time for this lot to be in bed?

She frowned as the idiot nanny stepped forward, holding his battered guitar out to Enjolras. To Mona’s intense surprise, the Captain accepted it, but only after a few half-hearted objections which prompted a round of begging from his darling offspring.

She sank back into the sofa with a sigh, resigned to her fate. As Marius sat down beside her she muttered bitterly about having forgotten to pack her harmonica. Marius smiled her at, somewhat confused. She ignored him, deciding instead to put all her attention into lighting and smoking a cigarette.

Enjolras was a surprisingly good singer and she could see where her children got it from. His voice was soft and pure and held the notes well. There was a stunned silence as his tune came to its end.

Taking advantage of the hush that followed the end of Enjolras’s song, Parnasse stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and took control of the situation.

“I have a wonderful idea, Enjolras,” she said, springing off from the sofa. “You must give a grand and glorious party for me while I’m here.”

Enjolras looked up at her in surprise as the rabble seated on the floor broke out into a chorus composed of “oh please” and “father how wonderful!”

“I think it’s high time I met all your friends here in Salzburg and they met me,” she continued. The undercurrent must have been plain in her tone as Enjolras shot her a slightly apologetic look. 

The boys continued with their nattering and calling, and Parnasse wondered how Enjolras could stand it, when the nanny who had been standing off to the side, watching the proceedings, finally stepped in, capturing their attention.

“Come on, now, it’s time to go to bed,” he said lightly, directing them towards the door.

The children got up without protest, moving to wish their father goodnight, the older boys calling out, while the younger boys pressed forward for a hug. As Joly reached forward to give his father a goodnight kiss he murmured into his ear.

“It would be my first party, father,” he whispered conspiratorially. Enjolras smiled at his youngest son indulgently and the Baroness knew the battle was won

+

The house had never been so noisy. There was a small orchestra playing waltzes in the ballroom, couples already filling the dance floor, while a seemingly never-ending rotation of cars and buggies came to the door with yet more people. Enjolras stood at the head of the receiving line, Mona by his side, welcoming his guests and introducing them to the Baroness Parnasse who smiled gracefully. She was dazzling and Enjolras couldn’t help but smile at how she glowed in the room.

The warm feeling of contentment evaporated as the next man arrived. Out of good manners, he bowed at Herr Thénardier, even though to do so made his blood run cold. The man was a German Sympathiser and a Nazi, but to not invite him, to exclude him from this gathering, would have been a huge social mistake and not one Enjolras could afford to make.

So he was cordial; he introduced the man to the Baroness and resolved to ignore his presence as much as he could. Despite this, he could not help but watch as the man moved through the crowd, no doubt to find a sympathetic ear. He saw Thénardier pause a moment to look up at the Austrian flag Enjolras had displayed so prominently in the hallway.

+

"Combeferre, who are you dancing with?" Feuilly asked, watching his older brother move carefully on the veranda. The children were outside, watching through the open doors into the ballroom, fascinated by the many guests inside. 

They were delighted at having been allowed to stay up so late. Only the three oldest boys could remember gatherings like this having happened in the past, and on all those occasions they had been banished to the nursery, forced to watch the comings and goings from the windows.

Now they stood in the cool evening air, the music filtering out through the glass doors. Combeferre stepped smartly on his own, hands placed on an invisible waist and shoulder, the usually serious look on his face absent for the moment as he moved in time to the music drifting from the ballroom.

“Nobody,” he replied, but with none of the usual sharpness to his tone.

"Oh yes you are," Feuilly grinned, as Courfeyrac stepped up, making a large bow and offering his hand. For once, Combeferre smiled, a real smile that reached all the way to his eyes as he murmured that he would be delighted. The other brothers watched, entranced, as the two eldest moved easily in the night air.

"Why didn't you boys tell me you could dance?"

Everyone froze on instinct, just for a moment, even though they knew it was R’s voice, that they would never be in trouble with him, that it wouldn't matter this once that they were caught dancing.

Jehan broke the moment of awkwardness, stepping forward with a small dreamy smile.

“We were afraid you’d make us all dance together,” he smiled, before twirling on the spot. “The Von Trapp Family dancers!” The other boys laughed as the relaxed atmosphere returned to the veranda. They turned their attention back to the ballroom which was filled with anonymous faces, all taking their places as the orchestra started to play.

“What’s that they’re playing?” Joly asked, his big eyes turning trustily up to R who grinned down at the small boy.

Through the open doors, the children observed the grown-ups moving gracefully around the ball room, women dressed in their best gowns, the men dressed sharply in black suits and bow ties. The candlelight proved remarkably bright as it reflected off the mirrors in the room.

“It’s the Laendler, an Austrian folk dance,” R replied, old memories filtering through his mind. He was brought back by a firm hand tugging at his shirt.

“Show me,” Jehan looked remarkably sincere and R couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Oh Jehan, I haven’t danced that since I was your age,” he stepped back, rubbing an awkward hand over the back of his neck.

“You remember, please?” Well, R didn’t have a hope, not with Jehan turning his big green eyes on him like that. He felt his resolve disappear and Jehan knew it.

“Well, all right,” he agreed, something inside tugging his heart when Jehan lit up with delight. “Come on over here.”

They moved away from the doors to the centre of the patio in order to have plenty of space. He took a deep breath and began to instruct the boy.

“First, we bow to one another,” he dropped a bow, grinning at Jehan encouragingly.

“Like this?” Jehan’s wiry frame bent in imitation of R’s more graceful move but R nodded, reaching out to take the boy’s hands.

“Fine,” he affirmed, “now we go for a little walk.”

It was slightly awkward as they stepped for three, then a little hop and now a turn but R was a patient teacher and the boys watched in fascination as their brother and tutor stumbled about. R  
moved remarkably lithely for someone dancing with a boy half his age. 

Nobody noticed Enjolras step out into the night air, pressing his gloves onto his fingers. He watched for a moment from the shadows, smiling as his son and his employee attempted a turn, the two getting somewhat tangled with the height difference, and Enjolras’s face stretched into a smile as R offered encouraging words to a slightly disheartened Jehan.

He moved into the light, to tap lightly on Jehan’s shoulder.

“Do allow me, would you?” He was so focused on his son that he completely missed the look of mild horror on R’s face, a look which was gone, his face back to its reserved expression, by the time Enjolras glanced up at him.

Enjolras straightened his spine, moving his left hand to rest at the small of his back while offering his right hand out to the stunned youth before him. R felt his legs moving long before his brain caught up. He accepted the outstretched hand, and before he knew what was happening his treacherous face had broken into a small warm smile.

R moved easily now that it was Enjolras and not Jehan who was his partner, his muscles remembering easily what his heart and mind had long forgotten. He allowed Enjolras to take the lead, as if the man could do anything else. His feet moved well and Enjolras proved to be a good partner.

Not just good, his mind retaliated, the best. They moved naturally, telepathically, as though they had always danced together, Enjolras’s dress shoes matching R’s somewhat tatty boots on the paving slabs.

R was flying.

They flowed so easily together and they were so close. His skin burned where Enjolras touched it, contrasting sharply with the stinging night air. Just for a moment, Enjolras’s hands found R’s waist and he was sure he might die right then, but the next moment, following the moves of the dance, the hands came back up, stretching above their heads and he matched them, twisting efficiently. They turned, each moving on their own for a moment.

R reached out a hand to grasp the gloved one offered over Enjolras’s left shoulder and was surprised to see it so steady when the rest of his body was screaming. He knew what was coming next and his brain almost short circuited as they came together. They met chest to chest, left arms raised, hands clasped, while their right hands rested at the small of R’s back and oh it was heaven.

Everything else had disappeared, the children forgotten, and he could barely hear the music, only the vague thud of his pulse in his ears. He wasn’t sure he was still breathing anymore.

Enjolras was so close he could feel his breath, could feel his warmth radiating through his dress shirt. They were barely inches apart; Enjolras only needed to bend down that golden, glorious head and their lips would have met and really that was a terrible thought to be having when Enjolras was close enough to read his mind.

He must have done, for at that moment their eyes met and everything seemed to stop. R suddenly felt very young, very lost, in the arms of this great man. His breath caught in his throat and he completely forgot that he was supposed to be dancing.

He stepped back, suddenly frightened of the tight feeling in his chest. Enjolras was looking at him, really looking at him, and all R wanted to do was run and hide.

“I don’t remember anymore,” he stuttered, filling the void with something, anything.

“Your face is all red.” 

Trust Feuilly, observant Feuilly, who noticed everything and let nothing pass at all. Trust Feuilly to comment now, of all times, in the presence of his father when usually he wouldn’t dare speak a word.

His hands instantly rose to his face, as if to hide the shame painted there.

“Is it?” his voice was not his own and his eyes never left Enjolras. In all this panic he failed to notice that Enjolras hadn’t stopped staring at him either.

“I don’t suppose I’m used to dancing.”

And dear god strike him dead right now, because at his words, Enjolras smiled. Not one of those benevolent smiles he had started to indulge his sons with, but a small secret smile just for him. R began to breathe again.

The moment was shattered by a smooth, cold voice from the darkness.

“Why that was beautifully done, what a lovely couple you make.” 

Baroness Parnasse stepped out of the ballroom, obviously in search of her dancing partner. She strode purposefully over to the two men who stood awkwardly as though caught in the act, even if it had only been the act of dancing. The children stood back, old instincts kicking in, sensing the change in atmosphere. 

Enjolras returned to himself, his shoulders setting into that familiar arrangement and you could almost hear the barriers slamming into place as he turned back to R, all efficiency.

“I think it’s time the children said good night.”

The spell was broken but just for a moment, R had been able to imagine that he belonged in Enjolras’s arms.

+

Grantaire forced his brain to focus on the matter at hand. He and the children had been practising a piece to perform to the guests before they retired for the evening and the last thing he wanted to do was appear distracted when the children required his moral support.

The boys had only ever performed in front of their father or Marius and the Baroness. A whole houseful of strangers was another matter entirely.

As it was, it went without a hitch. It was a light, humorous piece that went down extremely well. They were calm and confident and their voices sounded out well in the acoustics of the hallway. The audience chuckled in all the right places and when they were done there was rapturous applause and murmurs of delight from the congregation. He felt very proud and couldn’t help but seek out Enjolras’s face, pleased to see the Captain smiling so warmly.

Grantaire turned to follow his charges up the stairs when he found himself accosted by Marius, his eyes bright.

“Young man, I want a word with you,” Marius said, smiling pleasantly.

“Enjolras,” he called out to his friend, “you won’t let this young man get away, he must join the party!” Marius was insistent, dragging R over towards the Captain. Grantaire flushed, eyes dropping to the floor, wishing it would open up and swallow him. He opened his mouth to object, but Marius spoke over him.

“Enjolras, please,” he repeated, his tone firm.

Enjolras appeared to be in good spirits. He turned from a couple who were complimenting him, hardly glancing at the blushing boy in question before answering that Grantaire could join them if he wished.

Marius continued, apparently oblivious to the look of horror on Grantaire’s face, much less the look of distaste on Parnasse’s. The woman had closed her eyes, as though calming her temper by counting to ten. He called out to the passing Butler to have an extra place set at his side. The Butler looked surprised, turning to his master for confirmation. Enjolras nodded and the Butler moved to obey.

“I’m not suitably dressed,” Grantaire managed to find his voice at last, turning beseeching eyes to his employer. He wanted nothing more than to retire upstairs and read a book with Combeferre for an hour before sinking into bed.

Enjolras, apparently ignorant of his distress, advised that he could go to change and that they would wait for him.

Realising he had absolutely no choice in the matter, Grantaire headed upstairs.

+

Enjolras was delighted. He normally wasn’t one for parties but tonight was different. He wasn’t sure if it was the air on the veranda or his children behaving so marvellously, making him so proud. That pride only grew as the compliments flooded in from his enchanted guests.

One guest, a Baron whom Enjolras had known most of his life was heard to comment, “Is there a more beautiful expression of what is good in our country than the innocent voices of our children?” Enjolras could only beam at him.

But as he walked away the hair on the back of his neck shot up in response to the cold voice of Herr Thénardier.

“Come now, Baron,” Thénardier chided. “Would you have us believe that Austria holds the monopoly on virtue?”

Enjolras turned, the smile slipping from his face.

“Herr Thénardier, some of us prefer Austrian voices raised in song to ugly German threats.” His eyes bored into the man before him, but Thénardier gazed back, apparently unimpressed.

“The ostrich buries his head in the sand,” the man turned an ugly grin to the somewhat uncomfortable Baron and his wife. “And sometimes in the flag.” Here, he cast his gaze up to the Austrian flag hanging in the hall, before looking back to the Captain, face smug.

“Perhaps those that would warn you that the Anschluss is coming, and it _is_ coming, Captain,” Enjolras felt the blood freeze in his veins at the man’s tone, his certainty, his sneer. “They would get further with you by setting their words to music.”

A small crowd had gathered now to hear the exchange and there was quite the danger of there being a scene. Enjolras took a deep breath.

“If the Nazis take over Austria, I have no doubt, Herr Thénardier, that you will be the entire trumpet section.”

“You flatter me, Captain,” the man replied, smiling darkly. Enjolras stared back at him, before raising his own cold smile in reply.

“How clumsy of me, I meant to accuse you.”

+

Grantaire was rooting through the bottom of his wardrobe when Baroness Parnasse entered without knocking. He turned, expecting it to be one of the children, before covering himself with a shirt, startled to find a woman in his room when he was half dressed.

“I wondered if you needed any help?” she smiled. Grantaire felt a bit wrong-footed by the situation. This didn’t feel like usual behaviour for a Baroness. 

“That’s… very kind of you,” he murmured, eyes still wide. “But I really don’t think I have anything that would be appropriate,” he turned back to the wardrobe, if only to escape the woman’s stare.

“Come now,” she chided, her voice all velvet. “Where is that charming green waistcoat you were wearing the other evening? The Captain could hardly keep his eyes off you.”

The Baroness’s voice was light, as though talking about nothing more serious than the weather, but Grantaire felt his heart plummet. 

“What?” The word came out almost as a whimper. He felt stark naked before this powerful, beautiful woman, as though she could read his mind. It terrified him.

“There’s no reason to be so defensive,” she said, taking a step towards him. “You are quite attractive you know.”

Grantaire swallowed. Every instinct in his body was screaming for him to run away but he couldn’t move, caught in the power of her presence.

“One can hardly blame the Captain for noticing you.”

He looked up at the Baroness, eyes wide.

“But, I’ve never done a thing to –“ The words came out in a rush and Parnasse only smiled even wider at him. He needed her to understand. He knew it was wrong, that they were worlds apart. Suddenly, he felt desperate.

“But you don’t have to,” she purred in reply, taking another step towards him.

“There’s nothing more irresistible to a man than someone who is in love with him.”

Grantaire wanted to die. How could she know? Had he been that obvious? Did the Captain know? Oh this was too awful, just horrible.

“What makes it so nice,” the Baroness continued, “Is that he thinks he’s in love with you too.”

In that moment, Grantaire was sure his heart had stopped. Enjolras, in love with him?

“But that’s not true,” He hadn’t even realised he had spoken out loud, until the Baroness responded to him.

“But surely you’ve noticed the way he looks into your eyes,” she carried on, unforgiving in her soft tone. Grantaire felt sick. He would have preferred for her to shout at him, to call him the freak that he was, to be disgusted with him. But she was just so appallingly nice about it all. It hurt to hear her.

“And you know, you blushed in his arms when you were dancing just now.”

Grantaire knew it. He brought his hands up to his cheeks, repeating the action from earlier as though to hide the shame written there, the memory of Enjolras still fresh in his mind. There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on and on.

“Don’t take it to heart,” she said at last. “He’ll get over it soon enough, I think. Men do, you know.”

Grantaire could hardly hear her, lost in his own thoughts. He shouldn’t be here, he should leave.

“I should go,” he said out loud, the reality of the situation hitting him hard. Then he turned, reaching under the bed for his bag.

“I mustn’t stay here,” he said, more to himself, reaching into the wardrobe to the few possessions that were kept there. With his back to the Baroness, he failed to notice the smirk of satisfaction decorating her features.

“Is there something I can do to help?” she offered. Grantaire wiped his face with his sleeve, suddenly realising that he was crying.

“No, nothing,” he sniffed, pulling his bag closed. Then he turned, suddenly changing his mind.

“Actually, there was something. Please don’t say a word of this to the Captain.”

The Baroness regarded him with what appeared to be a gentle smile, before assuring the young man that she wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Then she turned to go. At the door, she paused.

“Goodbye, Grantaire. I’m sure you’ll make a very fine monk.” 

And then she was gone, leaving Grantaire to his tears.

+

“Champagne, darling,” The Baroness grabbed a glass from a passing waiter. “I feel like celebrating. Cheers!” 

She clinked glassed with Marius who looked at her in confusion. Her face was flushed and her eyes were suspiciously bright as though she was bursting with a secret.

“You know something,” he observed, his brow crinkled with curiosity. She smirked at him, taking another sip of her champagne.

“Perhaps,” she replied airily.

“If you’re so clever, tell me how to get our young tutor to influence Enjolras. I want those children to sing at the festival.” Marius looked across the room to where Enjolras was talking to a small group of people.

“Well,” Mona began, her grin only growing wider, “If it’s a matter of influence maybe the one you ought to be talking to is me.”

She handed a gaping Marius her champagne glass and moved over to dance with Enjolras.

+

Grantaire stole out of the house, clutching his bag and guitar case. He paused in the hall, leaving only a brief note behind. His hand trembled on the door handle but his footsteps were firm as he strode across the driveway towards the gate. Once he was outside the borders of the house, he took the path back to Salzburg and the monastery, leaving the bright lights of the Von Trapp family home behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, R darling....


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Von Trapp household in uproar in the aftermath of R's departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> embrace the angst!
> 
> erm, also, I've taken a few liberties when it comes to the approach of the catholic church to homosexuality in the 1930s. It's not explicit but, as well as asking for you to willingly suspend your disbelief, I also mention it as I don't want to unnecessarily offend anyone. I was aiming for "compassionate personal off the record opinion of an authority figure".

Joly had cried for two days after Grantaire’s sudden departure, clutching Semmelweis and refusing to be consoled by anyone. 

Enjolras, having discovered Grantaire’s note the morning after the party, broke the news at breakfast. It had been a shock, one that had unsettled the entire house. Combeferre had retreated to the library, only appearing at mealtimes which had reverted to being conducted in silence.

Courfeyrac’s behaviour had taken a sharp turn for the worse and Enjolras had needed to reprimand him on a number of occasions for his attitude. Feuilly and Jehan had barely spoken a word each, Jehan holing himself up in a quiet corner at every given opportunity to scribble anxiously in his notebook.

The other boys were also quiet and withdrawn. There was a sense of betrayal and hurt and terrible sadness throughout the whole house. The laughter and happiness and music which had so recently echoed round the halls had apparently followed Grantaire out into the night.

After five days, tired of his children hiding away in the nursery, Enjolras had instructed them to go out in the grounds and play. He had ignored all their protests and forced them into the gardens. They didn’t go far, perching on the stone wall by the lake, muttering amongst themselves.

Up on the patio a table had been set up and Marius was sitting, reading a newspaper and enjoying the late summer sunshine. He glanced up, watching as Parnasse made her way over to the children, attempting to engage them in polite conversation without much success. The boys closed ranks against the outsider, not being impolite exactly, but making it clear they were in no mood to be entertained with idle chatter. She wisely retreated to the veranda, joining Marius and pouring herself a drink.

“Surely there must be an easier way,” she sighed, glancing over her shoulder at the group of boys who were now sitting in silence. Marius took a sip of drink, his face lighting with an amused grin.

“I get a fiendish delight in picturing you as the mother of seven,” Marius exclaimed. “How do you plan to do it?”

Now Parnasse smirked, her eyes flashing.

“Darling, haven’t you ever heard of a delightful little thing called ‘boarding school’?”

“Baroness Machiavelli,” Marius commented, laughing lightly, not entirely believing that the Baroness was capable of such a thing, even though Parnasse was being deadly serious. 

Parnasse inclined her head, taking another sip of the lemonade. Then, spotting the little mob approaching, she rolled her eyes. They were led, unusually, by one of the middle boys, the quiet one with brown hair and intense eyes, Feuilly? That boy unsettled her and she shifted in her seat.

Feuilly ignored the Baroness completely, focusing his attention on Marius.

“Uncle Marius, where’s father?” he asked. Marius looked at him, and then at the rest of the boys gathered behind him.

“I think he’s in the house,” he replied, looking appraisingly over the children. The spark had gone out of them since the night of their tutor’s departure, that was for sure.

“What’s the matter with you all?”

“Nothing,” Bahorel was stony faced, arms crossed.

“I know!” Marius said brightly, “Why don’t you sing something for me? We can pretend you’re in that folk festival. Imagine you’re on stage. Go on!” He set his chair back, giving them his full attention, waiting for them to do as he asked, but the boys didn’t move.

“I don’t feel like singing,” Bossuet pouted and Joly nodded, holding his brother’s hand. 

“Not without R,” his determined little voice shook as he stared up at Marius who crinkled his forehead in sympathy. Nonetheless, Marius politely told Combeferre to fetch the guitar. Not wanting to be disobedient, Combeferre reluctantly paced inside to fetch the one his father had brought down from the attic for him to practise on.

When he returned, his brothers had been assembled, somewhat unwillingly, into their usual formation and Marius was looking at them expectantly.

“Give us the key, Combeferre,” he said, full of enthusiasm, and the boy dutifully strummed a chord.

“Now, impress me!” Marius gave them a warm, benevolent smile.

Feuilly started first, his soft voice sounding out the base note of the harmony before the others joined in. Courfeyrac, still not in the mood for playing the game, kept his arms folded and his mouth shut. Joly also clamped his lips tightly closed.

“Courfeyrac, Joly, why didn’t you sing?” Marius spoke gently to them. Courfeyrac only frowned at the slightly patronising tone but Joly spoke up.

“I can’t! I have a sore finger,” he insisted, shaking his head to emphasise the point.

Marius crouched down, taking the injured digit in his hands and pressing a small kiss to it.

“But you sang so beautifully the night of the party,” he cajoled, his tone reasonable. Joly just stared at him, his large eyes looking impossibly sad for such a small boy.

“Come on, it may cheer you up,” Marius kept up with the encouraging tone. “Sing something you all know and like,” he instructed Combeferre to start playing again, standing back to watch.

This time they did sing. They sang the first song Grantaire had ever taught them, the campfire song they had sung on the mountainside that first glorious day out, the day of the picnic. As Combeferre strummed, each boy remembered something different, some personal moment, and Grantaire’s absence was felt keenly by them all.

They got through four lines before Feuilly walked away, unable to continue. Jehan moved to follow his brother, who had stopped at the balustrade staring out over towards the lake, slipping his hand into Feuilly’s squeezing lightly.

Behind them, Enjolras had just stepped out onto the veranda, attracted by the sound of his children singing again. He had been in his study looking over some papers, when his head rose at the sound of music filtering through the window. He hadn’t heard the boys play or sing a note since the night of the party and hearing them now reminded him just how quiet they had been since Grantaire’s sudden departure.

He arrived just in time to see Bahorel storming off towards the summer house, while Courf went and threw himself down on the grass underneath a tree. His other sons were scattered around the patio, in various states of despondency.

Enjolras sighed. He knew they were hurting and part of him was angry with Grantaire for hurting them the way he had, for just up and leaving without any explanation. He was angry with himself for not knowing why the young man had left, for not being able to provide his children with the answers they so desperately craved. 

The last time he had seen Grantaire, he had been smiling broadly, cheeks flushed with pleasure after the success of the children’s performance. And before that, of course, on the patio dancing in the cool of the evening. Thinking of it hurt and he didn’t know why. Tutors had come and gone before but not like this; no one had been like Grantaire. 

Marius spotted the Captain first.

“They were just singing for me, Enjolras,” he said quickly, face pink behind his freckles as though they had been caught doing something wrong. Enjolras realised he must have been frowning and hastily rearranged his features.

“No, that’s lovely,” he replied, “Please don’t stop.”

But it became clear after a moment that Combeferre had no intention of picking the guitar back up, so Enjolras, head held high, strode past his sullen sons and sat down at the table next to Parnasse, eyeing up the jug of pink lemonade with suspicion.

“Father?” Feuilly’s voice was soft and uncertain and Enjolras tried to ignore the tremor hidden beneath it.

“Yes, Feuilly?” he made the effort to smile at his son.

“Is it true R isn’t coming back?” Feuilly looked intently at his father.

“R?” Enjolras rolled the nickname on his tongue, steeling himself internally. “Yes, it is true.”

He turned his attention back to the lemonade, hoping that would be the end of the matter, but of course it wasn’t.

“I don’t believe it,” Feuilly said steadily. Enjolras swallowed but when he spoke, he kept his voice light.

“Didn’t I tell you what his note said? He said he missed his life at the Abbey too much, he had to leave us, and that’s all there is to it.” He sat back in his chair, submitting to his son’s gaze, hoping that for all the boy’s powers of observation, would miss the empty feeling that had taken up residence behind his eyes.

Enjolras was so entirely focused on the downcast faces of his children that he failed to notice how Mona shifted uncomfortably in the chair beside him.

“He didn’t even say goodbye!” Bahorel was back, having stomped around under the trees by the summerhouse, before returning to the patio, hands still clenched by his side.

“He did in his note,” Enjolras answered somewhat dismissively, tiring of the conversation, as well as the fact that Bahorel’s tone set his teeth on edge.

“That isn’t the same thing,” the boy sulked, crossing his arms and slouching against the balustrade.

“Father,” Joly piped up now and Enjolras braced himself for another round of questions. “Who is our new tutor going to be?”

All the other boys turned to look at their youngest brother with varying expressions. Combeferre looked cold and distant while Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Feuilly looked mutinous. Bossuet just looked terrified. Jehan turned away, sitting cross-legged on the patio and tugging at his hair.

Enjolras sighed. This question he could actually answer. He looked over at Mona who gave him a small smile of encouragement which Enjolras returned, before standing up.

“Well,” he answered slowly, unable to stop the spread of the smile once it had started. “You’re not going to have a tutor anymore,” he came to a stop behind Mona, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. Parnasse surveyed the children before her.

“You’re going to have a new mother.”

Parnasse gave the children her most glittering, charming smile as they stared back at her dumbly. Enjolras gave them a moment for the news to sink in.

“A new mother?” Combeferre’s mouth was open. 

“We talked about it last night. It’s all settled.” Parnasse reached up to cover Enjolras’s hand on her shoulder with her own. “And we’re all going to be very happy.”

Enjolras stared at his son’s expectantly over his fiancée’s shoulder. Combeferre took the hint first, stepping forward to press a polite kiss to his new step-mother’s cheek. He was followed by Courf who still looked too stunned to do anything but follow his older brother’s lead. One by one the boys lined up to pay their respects to the Baroness who, like it or not, was now going to be a big part of their lives.

Their father dismissed them with a smile and they returned to the house, making sure they were out of earshot before running up to the nursery for an emergency meeting.

+

Sneaking out had proved surprisingly easy. There had been no problem opening the well oiled wrought-iron gates, no sudden appearance of an irate farther as the group easily slipped out into the road, heading for the town. They had to ask for directions to the Abbey from someone they met along the road, but it didn’t take them long before they were headed up hill to where the stone building stood. They approached the gate nervously and rang the bell pull for attention.

A monk appeared, giving them a peaceful smile.

“Yes, my children?” he greeted, his manner relaxed and gentle. Combeferre spoke up first.

“My name is Combeferre,” he started, wondering briefly how you addressed a monk in a respectful manner, but the Brother smiled and nodded at him encouragingly.

“We, my brothers and I, we want to see R, please.”

The Brother looked at him blankly for a moment, confusion in his eyes.

“R? Oh, Grantaire!” Combeferre felt a rush of relief as recognition sparked across the face of the monk who reached forward to unbolt the gate and let them through.

“Come in, please,” he invited, still with the same smile upon his face. They shuffled into the cobbled entry of the Abbey before coming to a stop where indicated, the Brother asking them to wait for a moment while he walked away to fetch their former tutor. They huddled together, watching the movements of the Abbey around them, Brothers coming and going about their daily business.

Finally, another monk approached them, with bright eyes.

“I am the Master of Postulants here,” he introduced himself formally. “I understand you have been enquiring about Grantaire?”

“We have to see him,” it was Courfeyrac who spoke this time, his voice raised slightly with nerves. “Will you tell him we’re here please?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” The Master of Postulant’s tone was full of regret, but firm nonetheless. The boys instantly broke out into various objections. 

“We want him back,” wailed Bossuet. 

“He didn’t even say goodbye,” Jehan’s lip trembled slightly, eyes wide.

“All we want to do is talk to him,” Combeferre spoke over the top of his brothers, trying to make the Master understand. The man looked at them sympathetically.

“I’m very sorry, children, but Grantaire is in seclusion. He hasn’t been seeing anyone.”

“He’ll see us, I know he will!” Courf said firmly. Joly held up his hand, finger still bandaged.

“I want to show him my finger,” he implored, his tone injured but the monk merely smiled at him sadly.

“I’ll tell him that you were here. It was sweet of you to come.” He began to shepherd the group of boys back through the gate. Once it was closed and the monk had bid them a good day, there was nothing else to be done but return to the house, dejected and with heavy hearts.

Back at the gate of the Abbey the Master of Postulants watched them go, feeling unsettled by their visit, their obvious affection for their tutor and distress at his departure from their lives. Grantaire’s return to the Abbey had been sudden and unexpected, and now to have those children come in search of him troubled him even further.

“What was that about, brother?” The Abbot Father approached him, having heard the noise and come to investigate.

“The Von Trapp children, Father. They wanted to see Grantaire.”

At the mention of that name, the Abbot Father’s face creased with pain and regret.

“Has he spoken yet? Has he told you anything?” his voice was heavy with emotion. The Master shook his head.

“He doesn’t say a word, Father, except in prayer.”

They both knew how uncharacteristic this was of the boy they had sent out to the Von Trapp House at the beginning of the summer. As much trouble as Grantaire had been, he had always been appreciated and loved for his sense of life, his smile and his laughter, even if he was not the most disciplined postulant they had housed in the Abbey. To have him back with them in such a state was almost unbearable.

“Poor child,” the Abbot Father murmured, apparently lost in thought.

“It’s strange,” The Master of Postulants continued, “He seems happy to be back here. And yet he’s unhappy too.”

They stopped, the Abbot Father turning as though making a decision.

“I think perhaps I have been wrong in leaving him secluded so long. I think you had better bring him to me, even if he is not yet ready.”

“Yes, Abbot Father,” The Master bowed reverently and turned to execute his task.

+

Grantaire found himself once again outside the Abbot Father’s door but he was too tired, too lost, to worry about why he was in trouble. As he was shown in he dropped down to his knees to kiss the Abbot Father’s hand and suddenly there was a knot in his throat as emotion threatened to overtake him.

He had been ignoring, suppressing and hiding his heart and his pain ever since returning, but here in the eyes of the Abbot Father he knew there was no hiding. He felt as though the wise man before him could see right through him to the centre of his soul, could see everything, and that terrified him.

The Abbot Father rested a gentle hand on Grantaire’s head, the soft, wrinkled skin gentle against the wild brown curls.

“You’ve been unhappy, I’m sorry,” he murmured gently to the boy on his knees. Grantaire glanced up at the Abbot Father before rising to his feet. 

“Father,” his voice was rough from lack of use but he attempted to smile, the warm glow of the man’s peaceful nature washing over him, a blessed relief from the pain in his heart.

“Why did they send you back to us?” the Abbot asked, face serious. Grantaire flushed, lowering his gaze.

“They didn’t send me back, Abbot Father. I left.” The Abbot’s face flickered with surprise and he motioned Grantaire to sit down in a chair, wanting the boy to tell him what had happened. Grantaire tried desperately to find the right words, to explain the turmoil inside him.

“I was frightened, Father.”

The Abbot took a step forward, filled with concern.

“Frightened! Were they unkind to you?” To his relief, Grantaire shook his head vehemently.

“Oh no!” The warmth in Grantaire’s tone told the Abbot that he spoke the truth. He waited for the young man to continue.

“I was confused,” Grantaire stuttered, his eyes unfocused as he attempted to communicate everything he was feeling. “I felt… I’ve never felt that way before. I couldn’t stay. I knew that here I’d be away from it, I would be safe.”

The benevolent look of a shepherd leading his sheep returned to the Abbot’s face. He sat down in front of Grantaire, feeling slightly relieved that the boy had not suffered any cruelty or trauma at the hands of his employers.

“Grantaire, our Abbey is not to be used as an escape.” He didn’t intend his tone to be so sharp, but he allowed it to be clouded with disapproval. Grantaire looked up at him, his face and eyes full of trepidation.

“What is it that you cannot face?”

Grantaire wasn’t looking at him, he was looking over the Abbot Father’s shoulder, out of the window, into Salzburg and far away, over the horizon out of sight. His inner eye saw a house filled with the loud chatter of seven growing boys and a man with hair the colour of the sun, gentle hands that had held him while they danced, and a smile that could stop the world from turning.

“I couldn’t face him again.”

A silence settled over the room.

“Him?” The Abbot’s voice was soft with surprise. Grantaire flushed with mortification. Now the Father would know how awful he was. He bit his lip, desperate to keep the tears back.

“Captain Von Trapp?” The Abbot Father persevered, but Grantaire could only nod, too ashamed to speak.

“Are you in love with him?”

Something exploded deep inside, the dam burst and everything came flooding out.

“I don’t know!” He cried, voice desperate and he rose to his feet, as though to run away, but run to where? Instead he paced over to the wall, unable to face the penetrating gaze of the Abbot.

“The Baroness said I was. She said that he was in love with me, but I didn’t want to believe it,” the words came out in a rushed jumble, only barely coherent to the Abbot who was not entirely sure who The Baroness was.

“There were times when we would look at one another,” Grantaire whirled round, wrapping his arms round himself as though holding himself together, as though the force of the emotions he was feeling physically pained him. “Oh Father, I could hardly breathe!”

The Abbot almost smiled at the force of emotion playing across Grantaire’s face. 

“Did you let him see how you felt?” the Abbot asked carefully, stepping slowly towards his distressed postulant.

“If I did, I didn’t know it,” tears were beginning to creep into Grantaire’s voice and he stared hopelessly up at the Abbot Father.

“That’s what has been torturing me. To ask for his love would be wrong so I just couldn’t stay, I couldn’t.” He turned again, back to the wall, and the Abbot could see Grantaire’s shoulders shaking as he fought desperately to keep himself under control. His heart went out to the young man before him.

“Grantaire,” he spoke softly. “You have a great capacity to love.” The Abbot chose his words carefully, fully aware of the delicacy of the matter. The boy turned to him, faced confused and tear-streaked.

“I think you should go back and find out the truth about the feelings of Captain Von Trapp.”

Grantaire looked horrified. His face paled and he opened his mouth as though to object, but no sound came out.

“You were not meant to spend your life within these walls, my son.” The Abbot spoke kindly, his face gentle and open.

“Father, please let me stay,” Grantaire finally found his voice, stepping forward, ready to fall on his knees and beg if necessary. “Please don’t send me back there.”

“You have to face your problems, my son. You have to face your life. Don’t run away from the gifts given to you, especially not the gift of love.”

Grantaire stared at him, his whole body shaking, his brain trying desperately to cope with the Abbot Father’s words.

_Go back, face Enjolras. Find out what? If what the Baroness said was true? But what if it wasn’t true? But what if it was…_

He was drawn out of his thoughts by the Abbot Father placing his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders. He looked up into the old, tired eyes of the wisest and kindest man he had ever known; the one person who had always given him a chance, told him the truth and shown him endless patience, love and kindness. He trusted the Abbot Father more than he trusted himself.

“You have to live the life you were born to live,” the Abbot said firmly.

+

Enjolras surveyed the sorry looking group shuffling their feet in front of him. The boys had been late back from wherever it was they had been and while he wasn’t necessarily angry with them, he had been worried to discover that they had left the house without telling anyone. There had been far too much of that going on lately as it was.

Now they were back but they were late for dinner and Enjolras was determined to find out what had been so desperately important.

“It’s not like my children to be secretive,” he said lightly, apparently playful, but with a serious undertone. The children eyed him nervously, the older boys trying to appear stoic but only Combeferre pulling it off successfully.

“We’re not being secretive, father,” Bahorel spoke, face closed. Enjolras ignored him.

“And it’s not like my children,” Enjolras continued, pacing along the patio, enjoying himself far too much, “to be late for dinner.” He looked at them expectantly.

“We lost track of the time,” Courf supplied helpfully and the other boys stumbled over themselves to back him up.

“Come on now, who’s going to be the first one to tell me the truth?” He looked at each of the boys in turn, scanning them as though able to read their minds.

“Where do you think we were, Father?” Combeferre enquired levelly, his face entirely innocent as he met his father’s gaze. Enjolras narrowed his eyes.

“Well if you don’t believe us, you must have some idea of where you think we were?” he smirked a little at the unimpressed expression Enjolras gave him. Then Bossuet blew it with a giggle. Enjolras pounced on him immediately.

“Ah ha, Bossuet. You tell me.”

Bossuet looked up at him in horror, aware of his older brothers all staring at him, eyes wide, silently communicating loud and clear for him to keep his mouth shut.

“Courfeyrac told you, Father,” he said, swallowing slightly. “We were berry picking.”

Enjolras clapped his hands, as though he had only just remembered this vital piece of information.

“I forgot, you were berry picking!” he exclaimed, and the younger children agreed, loudly, clutching the idea and running with it. Combeferre kept quiet, watching the development of proceedings.

“All afternoon?” Enjolras enquired, smile wide. There was a lot of nodding and agreeing. “What kind of berries?”

There was a pause as seven brains tried desperately to come up with a berry type, and quickly.

Courfeyrac got there first, proclaiming that it was blueberries that had taken up their day and there was another round of hasty agreements which Enjolras allowed to go on for a bit before playing his ace.

“It’s too early for blueberries.”

Really, they should have abandoned the charade and just admitted where they had been, but there was also the sense that the time for confessions had long since passed. They had started down this path now so they might as well follow it to its sticky end. Combeferre silently thought that if there was ever a next time for sneaking out then they would come up with a cover story first after doing some serious and detailed research.

And someone really needed to stop Courfeyrac from talking because his idiot younger brother was now trying to claim that the blueberries were actually strawberries that had turned blue in the cold weather. Combeferre could have throttled him but settled for giving him a weighty glare.

Enjolras smirked at his children, pretending to go along with Courfeyrac’s blatant and terribly obvious lie, before holding out his hand.

“Very well, show me the berries?”

Combeferre was embarrassed. Really, he should be better than this. He should have had a plan, an alibi that was both believable and supported by evidence. Next time (if there was a next time) there would be no need for this mortifying dance.

“No berries?” Enjolras asked, all sweet and innocent.

This time it was Feuilly who spoke up, rescuing Courfeyrac from any further indignity.

“We ate them,” he exclaimed. And that was a much better lie, one that the rest took up with relish.

“Very well,” Enjolras stood back, rubbing his hands together, grinning at them all like a crocodile. “Since you have obviously stuffed yourselves on thousands of delicious berries, you can’t be hungry anymore.” He had to withhold his laughter at the way seven faces dropped in horror at the sudden realisation of where this was going.

“I’ll just tell the cook to skip your dinner,” he walked away leaving them all silent and mortified, grinning to himself as he returned to the house.

As soon as they were alone, squabbling broke out about whose fault it was that not only had their trip been entirely pointless, but now they were being rewarded with no dinner.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Bahorel grumbled. “We just wanted to see him.” They settled down on the wall by the lake, each boy lost in their own thoughts.

“The least they could have done was to let us say hello,” Bossuet broke the silence, voicing what they were all thinking about.

“I feel awful,” Joly agreed, snuggling into his brother’s side, sucking on his thumb.

Silence returned to the group. They watched a pair of swans take off over the lake, the great birds soaring into the air. A soft breeze blew over them, shaking the leaves of the trees gently. Combeferre couldn’t just stand there. It was all so infuriating. He started to walk, just to get away, just to think. He walked aimlessly towards the summer house and he thought of Éponine and how he hadn’t seen her for weeks, not since Grantaire’s first night, and now he was thinking about Grantaire again. He was just about to return to the house and try to reason with his father when he collided heavily with someone coming the other way.

“Combeferre?”

“R!” he spluttered in surprise, for R it most certainly was. At his shout, his brothers appeared and soon they were hurling themselves into the clearing and Grantaire’s arms, shouting and calling and hugging him as though it had been months rather than days since they had last met.

He hugged them all, letting out a surprised ‘oomph’ as even Bahorel hugged him. Joly leapt into his arms, burying his head into Grantaire’s neck, refusing to let go. Bossuet clung to his legs.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you!” he wheezed, trying to persuade Joly to let go but without much success.

“We missed you!” Bossuet wailed, his eyes scrunched tight. R grinned, he couldn’t help it, his whole soul lit up at the affection and love that had suddenly been hurled upon him.

He had hoped his return to the house would be unnoticed. His intention had been to skirt round through the trees, avoiding the windows, knowing that the occupants of the house should be at dinner. He would then present himself at the service door and request an audience with Enjolras. That plan had been thoroughly scuppered by the surprise appearance of Combeferre, but he couldn’t bring himself to be sorry.

As he brought his hand up to try and negotiate Joly’s hands from around his neck, he brushed over the bandage.

“Joly, what happened to you finger?” he asked, and finally the little boy pulled back so he could properly look at Grantaire.

“It got caught,” he said earnestly.

“Caught in what?”

“Courfeyrac’s teeth.”

There was a burst of laughter. Even Joly giggled and Courf ruffled his hair apologetically. He had been in an awful mood but all that had now evaporated. Everything was going to be ok because R was back.

“Combeferre, are you ok?” He looked over to where the elder boy was standing a little apart from his brothers, reserved as usual but with a warm flush to his cheeks.

“Just fair,” he managed a small smile. 

“Any messages lately?” R asked lightly.

“None at all, but I don’t mind really. I’ll be glad when school starts.” R shot him a sympathetic look, before finally allowing himself to be dragged off towards the house.

“I have so much to tell you all,” Grantaire laughed, feeling lighter than he had in days.

“We have things to tell you, too,” Bahorel returned, Courf nodding in agreement.

“The most important thing is that Father is going to be married,” Feuilly looked at Grantaire steadily, his young face grave and once again R was struck by the feeling that the boy, as observant as he was, knew far more than he was letting on.

“Married?”

Grantaire’s world came to a sudden stop. Well, that answered that question. The Baroness had been wrong. She had lied to him. Enjolras hadn’t loved him; of course that wonderfully intense man would never, could never love someone like him.

He was vaguely aware that Bahorel and Courfeyrac were talking to him, explaining that their father and Baroness Parnasse were to be married and Grantaire felt like such a fool. It was devastating.

“Oh, it’s Father, look!”

Grantaire came back to his senses as the cry went up, the boys spotting their father standing at the top of the steps to the veranda and Grantaire held his breath. The Captain was looking right at him and it hurt.

+

Enjolras could not believe his eyes. He had given his disobedient and secretive children ten minutes to have a good think and come up with yet another hilariously improbable story for their absence that afternoon – or better yet, for them to decide to tell the truth – before returning to the patio. Expecting to find seven contrite and repentant children, he had been enormously surprised to find Grantaire of all people standing there as if he had always been there, as though he had never left.

Grantaire was paler than when Enjolras had last seen him, and there were shadows under his eyes as though he had not been sleeping well. The light summer wind caught in his curls and Enjolras found it difficult to tear his eyes away.

“Good evening, Captain,” Grantaire was painfully polite, nodding his head respectfully.

“Good evening,” Enjolras replied, and he felt a smile creeping onto his face. 

After a moment’s continued to silence, he looked round at the boys who had apparently forgotten they were in disgrace.

“All right, everyone inside, go and get your dinner!” Enjolras announced, giving them a smile. There were whoops of joy as the boys tore past him, hungry and eager, all well with the world now that their tutor was back with them where he belonged.

Enjolras and Grantaire were left alone together on the veranda.

“You left without saying goodbye,” the words fell from Enjolras’s mouth before he had a chance to really think them through. “Even to the children.”

Grantaire lowered his gaze.

“It was wrong of me, forgive me.”

Enjolras continued to stare at him, as though fascinated that he was there at all, and Grantaire grew hot under the power of that gaze.

“Why did you?”

“Please don’t ask me,” Grantaire replied, his voice quiet. “Anyway, the reason no longer exists.”

Enjolras looked very much like he wanted to say something more, but the moment was broken by the sudden arrival of Baroness Parnasse. She walked, somewhat quickly but with her usual grace, to stand beside the Captain, possessively taking his arm.

“Why, Grantaire! You’ve returned.” Her voice was all lightness and surprise but Grantaire could see the tightness in her eyes and the twitch to her mouth. It was like the twist of a knife in his stomach.

“I wish you every happiness, Baroness,” Grantaire began, somehow managing to sound sincere. “You, too, Captain. The children tell me you are to be married.”

Parnasse’s gaze was cool and triumphant. 

“Thank you,” she replied, staring at him as though trying to prise the thoughts from his head.

Grantaire moved to leave them, to enter the house, wanting nothing more than to shower and then hide in his bed, but Enjolras’s voice brought him to a halt.

“You are back to stay, I take it?”

Grantaire turned back, biting his lip before shaking his head.

“Only until arrangements can be made for another tutor.” With that, he took his leave. Enjolras stared after him, disappointment flooding him.

Grantaire rushed upstairs, not bothering about dinner. He should never have come back. The Abbot Father was wrong. Enjolras did not love him. He thought about his future and he despaired.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has an epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so, after much discussion and encouragement from my enablers, Cat and Sarah, I decided to take the plunge and, in lieu of a wedding, throw in some smut. Only enough to merit "mature" at this point but that could change in the next chapter depending on how well this one goes down.

Enjolras stood on the balcony, leaning against the cool stone as he stared out at nothing in particular.

Dinner had been an unmitigated disaster. The children had been loud and boisterous, delighted to have their tutor back. Evidently Grantaire had not yet broken the news that his presence was temporary and his stay short-lived.

The man in question sat quietly, barely eating anything, eyes cast down, occasionally answering a question put to him directly by one of the children. It had unsettled Enjolras. The whole house had been so miserable and quiet without the young tutor there to breathe life into the place. Now, here he was, back amongst them and the boys were ecstatic but Grantaire looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.

Enjolras had escaped to his rooms at the earliest opportunity, first attempting to read a book. But after reading the same paragraph three times without taking in a word, he threw it aside and went to get some fresh air. But there was to be no escape, even out here.

Down below him, walking slowly and apparently unaware that he was being observed, Grantaire moved down the steps towards the lake.

Enjolras watched the boy, for that was what he was, really; certainly in comparison to himself. Enjolras suspected he was just old enough to be the boy’s father. Right now Grantaire looked younger and more lost than Enjolras had ever witnessed. The prodigal tutor was evidently deeply unhappy and that made Enjolras feel strangely hollow. He wanted Grantaire to smile. More than that, he wanted Grantaire to smile at him.

The realisation hit him very suddenly; he didn’t want Grantaire to leave. He couldn’t bear the idea of this young man just walking out, not after he’d come back. This strange, scruffy, irritating creature who had invaded his house so completely was endearing in his own way. The children adored him but it was more than that. Grantaire was different. He challenged Enjolras in a way no one else ever had.

He looked down, feeling even more wretched.

“There you are!”

Enjolras froze as Mona stepped out onto the balcony behind him. He tried to turn, just slightly, just enough so that it would appear he had been looking out across the lake rather than at the silhouette of Grantaire who was just visible beneath the trees.

Parnasse saw all right. She knew damn well what, or more specifically, who Enjolras had been looking at. She made a huge effort to control her expression, to stop the frown in its tracks, because frowns led to unwelcome wrinkles and she was unwilling to waste wrinkles on that boy.

She had watched Enjolras all through dinner, staring unabashedly at Grantaire, and had received not so much as a glance in return. As for the subject of Enjolras’s interest, the pathetic creature had appeared to have given up whatever purpose he might have had in returning. No effort had been made on the boy’s part to smile or otherwise attract Enjolras’s attention. In fact, he had made every effort to be as small and as invisible as possible. What was particularly frustrating about this tactic was how it had the opposite effect; Enjolras couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“I really must speak to cook about the wiener schnitzel. It is entirely too delicious for my figure,” Parnasse giggled girlishly, reaching out to touch Enjolras on the arm, a light teasing brush of the fingers. Enjolras’s face twitched in what was apparently supposed to be a smile.

“And it makes you much too quiet at the dinner table,” she continued. Enjolras hummed in response but it was clear that neither his heart nor his head were committed to the conversation.

“Or maybe it was the wine,” she persevered.

“Oh, undoubtedly the wine,” Enjolras spoke up, realising that he should say at least something. Parnasse began to feel her grip on the situation failing. She decided to change tack.

“You have no idea the kind of trouble I’m having trying to decide on a wedding present for you. Oh I know, I’m enough!” She shot him her most glittering smile and Enjolras turned to look at her, his face half shrouded in darkness. Taking his attention as a good sign, she continued.

“I do want you to have some little trifle for the occasion. At first, I thought of a fountain pen, but you’ve already got one.”

From the light of the windows, she could see the blankness on Enjolras’s face and a coldness settled in her stomach. She was losing him. Nonetheless, she rattled on regardless, unable to concede her defeat just yet.

“And where should we go on our honeymoon, now that is a real problem –”

“Mona,” Enjolras spoke gently, and it hurt, it really hurt to hear that low tone directed at her. He was standing straight now, fully facing her, eyes serious with just a trace of regret in them.

“I thought a trip around the world would be lovely. And then I said, oh there must be someplace better to go,” her voice trembled; she could hear it and she really wanted to stop talking, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

“Mona,” Enjolras repeated and now she met his eyes.

“Yes, Enjolras?”

“It’s no use,” Enjolras shook his head as he uttered the words. “You and I.”

Mona pressed her lips together, straightening her shoulders as she met his eyes.

“I’ve been dishonest to both of us, and utterly unfair to you,” The compassion and emotion in Enjolras’s eyes was almost painful to witness. Parnasse bit her lip and lowered her gaze, feeling the sadness overtake her, the unfairness of it all to hear him say these words out loud. 

“When two people talk of marriage –”

Here, she interrupted him. He could let her walk away with a shred of dignity, surely. Let him at least grant her that.

“No, don’t, Enjolras. Don’t say another word.” At her interruption, he looked at her in confusion and she took a deep breath to steel herself.

“You see, there are other things I’ve been thinking of.” She paused for a moment, determined that when she next spoke it would be in an even tone.

“Fond as I am of you, I really don’t think you’re the right man for me. You’re much too independent, for one.” Enjolras had a soft sad smile of understanding on his lips now, allowing her to continue.

“And I need someone who needs me desperately.” She stopped, chuckling darkly as she broke eye contact with him, looking out across the lake. “Or who at least needs my money desperately.”

She took his hand then, squeezing it tightly, enjoying the warmth of it in her grasp.

“I’ve enjoyed every moment we’ve had together and I do thank you for that.” Silence hung between them, but it was strangely without awkwardness. It felt more like relief. Then she cleared her throat.

“Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll go inside, pack my little bags and return to Vienna where I belong.”

She looked out across the gardens, catching a movement which she assumed to be Grantaire just disappearing from view. Feeling uncharacteristically benevolent in defeat, or maybe it was just her affection for the man before her, still holding her hand, she decided to give him one last gift.

“And somewhere out there is a young man who, I think, will never be a monk.”

For a moment Enjolras froze, his face morphing from shock into horror. She leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she whispered to him. “Your secret is safe with me. I wish you only the best.” She felt him relax against her, his breath expelled in a huff from his lungs. She squeezed his hand, reassuringly. 

“Auf Wiedersehen, darling.”

+

Grantaire was barely aware of where he was. He had originally been in his room, but the laughter and chatter and noise coming from the nursery had given him a headache. Not wanting to snap at the children for something that was definitely not their fault, he had stolen away to seek some peace. The doors to the veranda had been left open and the fresh evening air was inviting. His feet had taken him down the steps and round in circles alongside the lake, beneath the trees and now, here he was, at the summer house.

He should not have come back. But at least now he had the truth. He knew now that his future was not here with Enjolras. 

He did not wish to return to the Abbey; he did not want the Abbot Father to know of Enjolras’s rejection, though doubtless he would eventually hear of the Captain’s marriage to the Baroness. It was entirely possible the couple would marry in the Abbey itself, another reason not to return.

Grantaire tried to think about the future. Maybe he would go travelling. He had read in his books about the world outside the Abbey, of faraway lands across the sea. With the money he had been paid for tutoring he would be able to secure passage, perhaps get as far as France or maybe England and then seek work there. 

Grantaire sat down on the stone seat next to the summer house, shivering despite the relative warmth of the evening. The world seemed too big for him at that moment. He felt so lost; his path was unclear.

“Hello,” Grantaire was startled to hear Enjolras’s voice. Turning, he observed the Captain striding into the clearing. “I thought I might find you here.”

“Was there something you wanted?” Grantaire shot to his feet, wondering if perhaps Joly or Bossuet had called for him. The Captain held up his hands at once.

“No, no,” Enjolras assured him, “Sit down, please.” His employer gestured for Grantaire to resume his seat, so he obliged, too tired to argue. To his surprise, Enjolras joined him.

What had he done to deserve this? He just wanted to be left in peace, to get this man out of his head and now he was being haunted, pursued. It was intolerable. 

An awkward silence descended on the clearing and it went on a shade too long. Grantaire had nothing to say and his mind was in no condition to make small talk. He stared down at his fingers which he knotted together in his lap. Enjolras was evidently lost in thought.

“You know,” The Captain cleared his throat, “I was thinking, and I was wondering two things,” Grantaire looked up, waiting for the man to continue.

“Why did you run away to the Abbey? And, what was it that made you come back?”

Grantaire chose his words carefully. He had never been one for lying regardless of being rubbish at it anyway. All the same, he couldn’t bear to tell the whole truth of the matter to Enjolras directly. So he skirted the issue, hiding his pain in metaphor.

“I had an obligation to fulfil… and I came back to fulfil it,” he replied, in as easy a tone as he could muster. Enjolras looked at him, those blue eyes seeming to search him, see right into him.

“Is that all?” The question was mild, casual, with none of the usual harsh tone Grantaire was used to when being questioned by the Captain.

“And I missed the children,” That, at least, was completely true. Enjolras seemed to consider Grantaire’s words.

“Only the children?”

“No. I mean yes,” Grantaire tripped over his tongue, trying to give the right answer, feeling trapped. “Isn’t it right, that I should have missed them?”

“Oh yes, yes of course,” Enjolras’s voice was just as hurried as Grantaire’s, reassuring and sincere. “I was only hoping that perhaps you…” the Captain trailed off, his head nodding to one side, eyes unfocused as though groping for the right words. 

“Yes?” Grantaire was leaning forward unconsciously, waiting desperately for Enjolras’s next words. The Captain looked up, his expression troubled.

“Nothing was the same when you were away,” he shrugged, looking annoyed and frustrated with himself, though Grantaire couldn’t imagine why. “It will be all wrong again after you leave.”

Grantaire felt a pang in his heart but he ignored it.

“I just thought perhaps you might change your mind?” When he looked up again to meet Grantaire’s eyes there was a strangely hopeful look on his face.

Grantaire felt strangely bitter. The Captain wanted him to stay. That wasn’t fair. He knew he would perform any request, follow any order from this man. It was cruel, though, to ask him to stay, to make him watch the Captain and the Baroness and bear witness to what would certainly be their insufferable happiness. He turned away, rising from the seat.

“Well, I’m sure the Baroness will be able to make things fine for you,” the bitterness in his heart was apparent in his tone and he could almost hear the Abbot Father’s admonishment should he have witnessed those words. He wanted to run away, or turn and shout at Enjolras, but he did neither. He stood beneath a tree, feeling its rough bark beneath his fingers.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras’s voice was firm, not quite a reproof, and Grantaire couldn’t help but shiver. “There isn’t going to be any Baroness.” 

“There isn’t?” Grantaire didn’t turn to face him, couldn’t turn to face the Captain, to search for truth on the man’s face. He heard Enjolras sigh behind him, and the sound of the man getting to his feet.

“No. You see, we’ve called off our engagement.”

He was right behind Grantaire now, his voice quiet in the darkness. Grantaire’s reply to this shocking statement was almost automatic.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Because that was what people said when such things happened, wasn’t it?

“You are?” Enjolras sounded incredulous, and something in it snapped Grantaire back to reality. He turned to look now, really look at Enjolras who was practically on top of him. He was quite a bit taller than Grantaire. Up this close the younger man could see, glinting in the moonlight, some thin grey hairs amongst the blond, could see the laughter lines at the corner of each eye.

“You did?” the words sounded stilted as they tumbled out of his mouth, which he put down to shock.

“Yes,” Enjolras confirmed, gravely.

“You can’t marry someone,” Enjolras continued, taking a final step into Grantaire’s personal space. “When you’re in love with someone else. Can you?”

Grantaire swallowed before he slowly shook his head. It was the only action he could accomplish because Enjolras, Captain Enjolras Von Trapp, was standing right in front of him saying that he wasn’t going to marry Baroness Parnasse because he was in love with someone else.

Someone else.

Enjolras stared right at him, those powerful blue eyes were full of resolve. A sure hand reached out, but the touch, when it came, gently cupping Grantaire’s chin, was delicate and tender. Enjolras tipped Grantaire’s face up and then ever so tenderly pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

It was chaste and tentative and perfect; Enjolras’s breath was warm against him as he slowly pulled away once the kiss was over. Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. Then Enjolras kissed his forehead and Grantaire could only sink into Enjolras’s shoulder, clutching at the man’s shirt, breathing in and enjoying the scent of starched linen and cologne.

“The Abbot Father always said, when the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.” Somehow Grantaire’s brain still had enough function to produce words, and in response he felt Enjolras chuckle silently, while strong arms held him close. Enjolras kissed his forehead again.

Then Grantaire was being moved, firm hands pressed to his cheeks so that Enjolras could look at him and the man had the most magical smile, a strange, beautiful thing Grantaire had never seen before. It was so open and genuine Grantaire had trouble believing that such a smile was meant for him.

“What else does the Abbot Father say?” Enjolras enquired lightly. Grantaire stared up at him, feeling a strange combination of being adrift and of being safe, all at once.

“That you have to look for your life.” Grantaire’s voice came out almost as a whisper, his heart in his mouth. A thumb stroked down his cheek, welcome, grounding him somehow.

“Is that why you came back?” He was lost in Enjolras’s tone, his smile, his eyes that were digging into Grantaire’s very soul. 

“Yes.”

“And have you found it?” Enjolras looked as though it was the most important question he had ever asked, aching for Grantaire’s answer.

“I think I have,” Grantaire’s mind was whirling at high speed, struggling to cope with what was happening. He saw Enjolras’s pupils contract, felt the twitch of the man’s fingers still against his cheekbones, and there was a rushing in his ears.

“I know I have.”

They stared at each other for a moment, comfortable in the silence, in the truth of that moment.

“I love you,” Enjolras said at last, before leaning forward to kiss him again.

Grantaire returned the kiss this time, still clutching Enjolras as though expecting the man to vanish beneath his fingers. He had no idea how or why this was happening; how Enjolras could possibly be here with him like this.

Some of his thoughts must have shown in his face, because Enjolras suddenly pulled back, his grip on Grantaire tightening. Grantaire opened his eyes to see Enjolras’s brow wrinkled with concern.

“What is it?” the man asked, his voice still careful and quiet as though terrified of scaring Grantaire away.

“I don’t understand. How can you love me? I’m nobody.” The boy’s voice was broken with a strange sadness and he felt the hollow feeling in his chest return. Surely this was all too good to be true.

“Don’t say that, Grantaire,” Enjolras frowned, eyes troubled.

“But I am. You’re a decorated naval hero. A member of the upper classes. A fine man, the Abbot Father said. And I’m… I don’t even know what I am anymore. I fell off the side of a mountain into a monastery and then stumbled my way here and I just –” A firm finger to his lips brought him to a halt.

“Grantaire, shall I tell you what you are? Who you are? You are the person I love. All those other things don’t matter. Because here we are, right now, irrespective of monasteries and baronesses and anything else. And I love you.” He kissed Grantaire again, and the younger man finally relaxed into his arms.

Enjolras was smiling when he pulled back, arms still wrapped round the younger man’s shoulders.

“I think it started that night you sat on that ridiculous pine cone,” Enjolras chuckled at the memory and it was a magical sound. Grantaire felt his heart warm.

“Well I think,” he scrubbed the back of his neck, blushing slightly. “I think it was when you blew that silly whistle.” Enjolras beamed at him, his whole face alight.

“Oh, my love,” he caressed Grantaire’s face. 

“Will you come to my rooms tonight? I would have you in my bed.”

In the darkness, Grantaire blushed and he ducked his head. He tried to pull back, to pull away from Enjolras, and after a moment, the Captain let him go.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras pronounced his name gravely and Grantaire closed his eyes, suppressing a shiver. He felt ashamed.

“I am sorry if I have offended you,” Enjolras sounded genuinely upset and distressed and Grantaire could not help but turn back and reach out to the man before him.

“I am not offended, Captain,” he murmured, his voice steady but strained. Grantaire didn’t even begin to know how he could possibly explain to the Captain all that he was feeling. He would desperately love to be in the Captain’s bed, his cheeks warmed at the very thought of it. 

He knew, of course, that people like them could never be public. That there would be no wedding. He had never thought to be married anyway, as he fully expected to enter the church, even as a poor impression of a monk. It was just that he had never touched another, despite the girls on the mountain who had flirted with him, and with whom he had flirted. He sighed, tugging at his curls in the dark. Enjolras wanted him. Enjolras loved him. He would not be marrying the Baroness and he wanted Grantaire in his bed.

“Of course, if it were possible I would have you wear my ring, I would proclaim my love for you from the rooftops but, well,” Enjolras was evidently a mind reader. Grantaire looked up at him, eyes widening slightly, but his lips managed to pull into a small smile.

“I understand.” 

And he did. He believed Enjolras whole heartedly. But not only would such an action be folly and at best, result in Enjolras’s permanent exclusion from public circles, in the current climate it may even serve to get them both shot.

“If you would rather not –” Enjolras bit his lip, his face clouded with uncertainty.

“No, I would. I will,” Grantaire was impressed with the certainty in his tone and was rewarded with the relief that broke across Enjolras’s face. 

“It’s just,” he swallowed. “I have never… there has been no other. Ever”

Enjolras enveloped him in his arms and Grantaire sighed into his shoulder, enjoying the sensation of being immersed in the older man.

“On my life, I swear I will do you no harm nor wrong.” Enjolras’s voice was filled with emotion and sincerity and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile.

“I trust you.”

+

Grantaire had never been admitted to Enjolras’s rooms before. The bedroom was large and contained a four-poster bed of carved mahogany and Grantaire couldn’t help but stare at it, his heartbeat picking up slightly.

“Are you comfortable?” The Captain asked him, closing the double doors with a click. He had already changed from his evening suit into a night shirt and Grantaire felt rather embarrassed to still be wearing his corduroy trousers and shirt. He swallowed before nodding.

Enjolras approached him slowly, reaching out with careful deliberate movements, first to touch Grantaire’s face, then to stroke down his cheeks to the boy’s neck before moving in to kiss him once more.

“May I undress you, Grantaire?” Enjolras murmured in the boy’s ear, seeking permission and Grantaire closed his eyes, seeking courage, before nodding his assent.

He was stripped efficiently and effortlessly. First his shirt which was swiftly cast aside, and then his trousers, but not his drawers. Enjolras led him over to the bed and guided him down. Grantaire scooted over, making room for the Captain, before struggling to climb under the sheets. Enjolras smiled at him, such a radiant expression which just about managed to settle Grantaire’s nerves.

Once the bedside lamp had been extinguished and there was nothing but night between them, Grantaire closed his eyes, allowing his other senses to take over. Enjolras’s arms held him tenderly, lovingly, as his mouth sought to kiss every inch of him. He was pliant beneath those sure and capable fingers as they ran over Grantaire’s skin.

Grantaire, for his part, wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t suffered a blow to the head. But he determined to enjoy this hallucination for as long as it continued. 

He was aware that he was hard but there was no time for embarrassment, no way to possibly hide this fact. Furthermore, Enjolras appeared to be in a similar state and his attentions grew more insistent.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras’s voice was breathy in his ear. “Have you studied the classics?” Grantaire’s mind was a little foggy beneath the Captain’s attentions but he attempted to answer the question.

“I am fluent in Latin and I know a little Greek, Sir,” he replied, and then Enjolras laughed softly against his skin and he all but melted beneath the man’s touch.

“I would have you lie on your belly, have you press your thighs together. Can you do that for me? I promise it will not hurt you.”

Somewhere inside Grantaire’s brain there was flash of understanding. He opened his eyes to see Enjolras looking at him, apparently confident but with an air of apprehension around his eyes. Grantaire tried to smile some reassurance before willingly turning onto his front.

He groaned immediately, as Enjolras’s quick fingers pulled down his last remaining item of clothing, all the way down his legs and off, presumably to be cast onto the floor. Instantly he felt vulnerable, cool air ghosting over his cheeks and his thighs. 

A soft kiss was placed between his shoulder blades, and Enjolras’s hands moved over his skin, massaging his backside and then down to his thighs and Grantaire hid his face in the pillow, trying not to moan too loudly.

“Oh, Sir,” he whimpered, unsure what he wanted. The touch was mild, tender, but his skin was on fire, as though the light caresses were harsh blows. But the Captain was suddenly there, his head resting on Grantaire’s shoulder, breath steady on his neck and he relaxed as the man hushed him.

“You are so beautiful,” Enjolras muttered before biting down on Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire found that hard to believe, but it didn’t seem appropriate to contradict the man at that moment. Especially not when he felt Enjolras move backwards. He felt lips kiss down his back, across his behind and down to where it met his thigh. He groaned, his hips thrusting unconsciously as he felt Enjolras lick his thigh.

“Remember, hold them together tightly for me,” Enjolras’s voice coaxed and Grantaire would have promised him the moon at that moment.

Enjolras lay on top of him, kissing his shoulders, while he thrust between Grantaire’s thighs and the younger man wondered if it was possible to die of pleasure. He was pinned to the sheets and his hips kept moving back to meet Enjolras’s thrusts, though he obediently kept his thighs together as instructed.

He came quickly, the friction of the sheets and the sensation of Enjolras thrusting against him proving too much as he spent into the sheets, his cry muffled by the pillow. He was aware of the Captain’s soft words, praise and gentle encouragement in his ear while the man continued to thrust against him.

When Enjolras came a short time later the warm stickiness between his thighs made him squirm and blush, but it was Grantaire’s name on his lips. The man sank down on the bed beside him, wrapping Grantaire tight in his arms.

“My sweet love,” he murmured, pressing kisses into Grantaire’s hair and to his forehead. When he heard the boy in his arms sniff, he looked up, slightly shocked. Grantaire was crying.

“Oh, my love, did I hurt you?” Enjolras’s face was the picture of mortification but Grantaire shook his head, his smile wide and genuine despite the tears.

“Oh no, Sir, no. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”

He felt foolish and ridiculous to be crying in bed, but Enjolras pulled him close, holding him tightly and kissing the tears from his cheeks.

“Say my name, darling,” he coaxed, voice gentle. Grantaire took a deep breath.

“Enjolras,” he sighed, and a great surge of happiness flooded his chest as Enjolras’s lips met his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and profuse thanks to all the lovely people who have commented on this - you're all wonderful, thank you so much!  
> I have a sneaking suspicion the end is nigh :(


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A honeymoon interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... Don't worry if you don't remember this bit from the musical. This was a special request and is essentially fluffy smut for Sarah & besanii :)

The afternoon sun filtered through the shutters, casting long shadows and illuminating the dust in the bedroom. Grantaire lay on his back, a cotton sheet cast around his waist as he watched Enjolras sleep.

They had been in France for three weeks, more specifically in Enjolras’s villa in the Languedoc region, the house set up a quiet track about a ten minute drive from the nearest village. They were completely alone as the house did not usually keep a permanent staff and Enjolras had brought nobody with him, not even a valet or manservant. Ostensibly, Grantaire was supposed to fulfil that role, but the staff quarters remained unoccupied.

The morning after their first night together, Enjolras had kissed Grantaire awake. He had whispered his plan into the young man’s ear while he reached down to touch Grantaire, to take him in hand and eventually bring the boy to climax as the older man whispered promises of time together, just the two of them, away from questions and prying eyes.

They had agreed to tell the children because neither was comfortable keeping such an important secret from them. Grantaire had stood shyly in the background, slightly nervous about how his charges would take the news that their father was now in a relationship with their tutor after having so recently been told that he was marrying the Baroness. He need not have worried. Bahorel and Courfeyrac let out enthusiastic cheers, Jehan and Feuilly offered slightly milder expressions of congratulations, while Joly and Bossuet scampered over, first to hug their father, and then over to R who couldn’t help but smile in relief.

Combeferre came to talk to him privately later that day, apparently to ask Grantaire’s critical opinion of a book he was reading, but Grantaire took it for what it was; confirmation that Combeferre had no problems at all with the change in dynamic in the household.

That night, Enjolras took Grantaire back into his bed once more, moving together in the darkness. He clung to Enjolras, breathing in that unique scent, losing himself in the sensation of being loved and treasured.

“Tomorrow, you and I will leave this house. Just us,” Enjolras whispered, repeating his promise from that morning. Grantaire hummed sleepily, the emotional turmoil of the past week catching up on him. As he drifted off to sleep in Enjolras’s arms, the blond looked down and smiled before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

+

“You can’t possibly be serious!”

Grantaire looked in horror at the white metal tube sitting on wheels in the middle of the field. He had heard about such machines but he had never actually seen one, much less been inside one. This must be a horrible mistake. Enjolras had been a sea Captain. Grantaire had expected them to travel by boat. Surely Enjolras didn’t actually mean for them to go wherever it was they were going in _that_!

“Don’t be ridiculous, Grantaire,” Enjolras replied, dismissive and calm as he stepped out of the car and waited for the boy to follow him. Grantaire swallowed. He really had very little choice. It was either get out of the car or displease Enjolras and he so desperately wanted to make Enjolras happy.

The airfield was small, with a white building towards which Enjolras was striding purposefully and Grantaire forced his legs to trail after him while the driver brought the suitcases round. Grantaire felt unbelievably awkward. He had no role here, no little job to do. Everyone else around him seemed to have a purpose. He watched as Enjolras spoke to a member of staff before beckoning Grantaire over towards some seats in a waiting area.

“If god had intended us to fly we would have been born with wings,” Grantaire muttered, eyes round as saucers as he stared out of the window at the aeroplane that was to take them to their certain doom.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Enjolras soothed, hand faltering slightly as he realised he couldn’t very well hug Grantaire in such a public setting. “I have flown, myself, several times. You just sit in your seat, look out of the window and then it’s over. It’s just like being in a car.”

“Except up in the air,” Grantaire didn’t look at all convinced by Enjolras’s pep talk. “Won’t we suffocate?”

“Evidently not,” Enjolras replied smoothly, feeling the corners of his mouth begin to betray a smile.

Grantaire had said nothing more, though the stoop of his shoulders were reminiscent of the condemned man being led to the scaffold as he walked silently towards the aircraft. During the take-off he had clutched Enjolras’s hand tightly, muttering prayers with his eyes squeezed tightly shut as the loud metal monstrosity lurched into the air.

“It’s only an hour or so,” Enjolras’s voice was calm, unfazed by the movement of the plane. He extracted his hand from underneath Grantaire’s tight grip and began to read his newspaper, every so often glancing over to where Grantaire was peeping cautiously out of the window.

The landing was worse than the take-off, and Grantaire nearly broke Enjolras’s hand, he was squeezing so tight. As they made their way down the steps onto the airfield Grantaire fell to his knees and kissed the earth. Enjolras decided they may well take the train back to Salzburg.

But they weren’t worrying about “going back” at this point. When he had left, he had given no indication to the house staff of how long he would be away. Marius was in charge of the children and there was an envelope with contact details that was only to be opened in the event of a dire emergency. Enjolras only hoped Marius understood what a dire emergency actually was.

They took a car from the airfield and drove for a couple of hours with the roof down, the baking sun bearing down upon them. They drove in silence, Grantaire staring out at the passing landscape, thoroughly enjoying the sense of space, the mountainous expanse that led them up and down in all directions.

The villa was a modest building in comparison to the huge manor house back in Salzburg, but Grantaire didn’t have much time to admire the view as Enjolras picked the younger boy up, causing Grantaire to cry out in surprise, before he was carried over the threshold.

Grantaire was in heaven. Nights and days had blended together. They slept, they woke, they ate, they bathed together. Sometimes they took walks. Enjolras would put together a picnic which they would eat under a tree or up a hill, looking over the view, the sky seeming to go on forever. Enjolras was free with his caresses. He stroked Grantaire’s skin tenderly, kissed him possessively.

Once, he had Grantaire stand against a tree, bent forward slightly, his corduroys bunched round his knees while Enjolras thrust between his thighs. Grantaire looked across the valley, the world at his feet and Enjolras behind him, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear before gasping Grantaire’s name as he climaxed. When Grantaire came shortly after, with Enjolras’s hand moving speedily around him, and the sun and the sky and the beauty of the world seeming to crash around him, he wondered if there was anything more astounding in the world than their very existence at that moment.

They had been at the villa just over a week. They had used the day to travel to a nearby town to visit the market there and gather food and wine. Enjolras curled up around Grantaire, kissing down the younger man’s neck. The night was too warm for sheets and the shutters stood open, the sounds of the night filtering through.

“My darling,” Enjolras murmured, kissing just behind Grantaire’s ear. “I would have you completely, if you would permit it. I would claim you for my own.”

Grantaire shifted in the dark, not entirely sure what Enjolras was referring to. He had given himself entirely to Enjolras in every way he thought possible. The man had his heart as well as his body. Seeing his confusion, Enjolras reached forward to capture Grantaire’s mouth in a reassuring kiss.

“Lie back, R,” Grantaire shivered to hear that single letter of his nickname spoken like that. “You must tell me if you wish me to stop. But only trust that I do not wish to hurt you, understand?”

Enjolras was staring at him intently. Grantaire nodded, lying back against the bed, waiting for Enjolras to direct him. Strong hands slid up his thighs, moving them apart. Grantaire moved willingly under Enjolras’s direction, and the older man moved to settle between his spread legs.

“Try to relax,” Enjolras whispered, and Grantaire shivered as soft lips brushed against his thigh. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, listening to Enjolras moving on the bed.

“Oh! Oh Sir!” he cried out, flinching slightly as something cold, a finger, was pressed between his cheeks, not intruding but unexpected. Enjolras hushed him, stilling his hand but not withdrawing it.

“Trust me, Grantaire,” he said steadily.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry,” he gulped, trying to remind himself that this was ok, this was Enjolras. It would be fine. There was another kiss, a little higher this time, at the top of his thigh.

“Don’t apologise, it’s fine. I should have warmed the oil first, It’s my fault.”

The second touch was better. Now that Enjolras had warmed the oil in his hand, the finger that pressed against his entrance was not quite so unwelcome. Enjolras had a careful touch and he whispered and reassured and coaxed Grantaire until he was relaxed enough for that finger to press forward, to enter him.

Grantaire was overcome with a variety of sensations and emotions. He wanted more. He couldn’t help but groan, clenching around Enjolras’s finger. He was aware of Enjolras’s tongue, the Captain’s mouth licking along his shaft before taking Grantaire’s length in his mouth and all he could do was lie back, writhing against the sheets.

He gasped, arching his back as a second finger joined the first, Enjolras scissoring and stretching inside him. 

“Oh, please, Enjolras, Sir, please,” he muttered, the words pouring forth without him fully knowing what he was trying to say. He twisted and bucked and if his mind had been a little clearer he probably would have blushed at his behaviour. As it was, Enjolras’s fingers thrust inside him, every so often pressing just so, and then a thrill of pleasure shot through him, turning his skin to ice and fire at the same time.

When Enjolras pressed a third finger inside he thought he might actually burst. He was dimly aware of a strong hand holding his hip in place, of Enjolras continuing to lick and suck at his sensitive tip, while those fingers worked their magic. He let out a guttural moan when suddenly the fingers were removed.

“Hush, love, it’s ok. I have you,” Enjolras kissed him quiet, having risen up above him, hands pressing down onto Grantaire’s thin, pale shoulders.

“I love you,” Grantaire gasped into Enjolras’s mouth, meaning it with all his heart. He had never known it could be like this. Enjolras grinned down at him, giving him one final firm kiss, before gently hooking Grantaire’s legs up around his waist.

Grantaire was lost. He was lost and overwhelmed and flying. Enjolras moved within him, thrusting firmly, and it was simultaneously too much and not enough. His hands clenched at the sheets before moving up to the warm, firm skin of Enjolras’s chest, finally coming to rest on the man’s shoulders. He was so deliciously stretched and full and his whole universe was reduced to Enjolras.

Enjolras looked down at the boy beneath him. He reached up to run his hand through Grantaire’s sweaty curls, kissing him thoroughly. Grantaire’s breath was ragged, the boy’s chest heaving with every thrust. Feeling Grantaire so tight around him, to have him this way, was divine. Enjolras never wanted it to end. He could feel the heat boiling in his gut, the familiar tightening.

He took Grantaire in hand, causing him to rise in volume.

“You’re so beautiful, R,” he gasped, thrusting in hard, almost unable to control himself now that he was so close. He heard Grantaire’s strangled cry, felt the boy come across his hand. As Grantaire’s muscles clenched around him he gave a shout before coming, collapsing on top of the boy beneath him.

Grantaire was vaguely aware of the stickiness inside him and between his thighs, through the haze of his orgasm. He never wanted to move from this moment. Every other time he and Enjolras had been together he had no idea there could possibly be more, that there could be _this_.

Eventually he opened his eyes, looking up with wonder and awe at Enjolras who smiled down at him fondly. As he came back to himself he became aware of how stretched, and slightly sore, he was, but he didn’t mind. Enjolras pressed kisses to his forehead and his touches were light and reverent as he cleaned them both with a damp cloth, the water evaporating almost as soon as it touched his skin, so hot was the night air in their room.

“I wish we could stay here always,” he murmured. Enjolras folded himself around Grantaire’s back, kissing down the nape of his neck, a loose arm thrown over him possessively.

“Me too, darling. Me too.”

And so their time in France continued. They learned each other, grew comfortable in each other’s company. Grantaire’s life back in Salzburg seemed a vague dream, a grey world that hardly existed. As he lay in bed, the soft call of birds filtering through the window, a gentle breeze causing the shutters to creek, he allowed himself to consider how much his life had changed. Cautious fingers reached out to brush a lock of blond hair from the Captain’s face and Grantaire brushed a reverent kiss on the man’s cheek.

He was calm, at peace and happy. There was only here, only now, only Enjolras.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and R come back to reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for Nazi's

Grantaire knew they couldn’t stay in France forever, as much as he might wish to, but the past month had been beyond his wildest dreams. Life in the mountains had been so easy with no one to disturb them. Up here, Enjolras had been so carefree, so easy to know. They had been able to learn each other by heart and Grantaire couldn’t imagine his life without that steady strong presence by his side.

In truth, he had lost all sense of time. They woke, ate, took walks, sometimes travelling into the village but mostly staying within the safety of the villa. He loved the way Enjolras looked in the morning, his hair poured over the pillow, his skin reflecting the soft sunlight breaking through the shutters. More than once, Grantaire perched on the end of the bed with his sketchbook, trying to capture the moment on paper. Inevitably, long before he was finished, he would be dragged back into the bed by his Captain and wrapped up securely in those wonderfully safe arms.

They couldn’t stay in France forever. A letter came one day. Grantaire didn’t get to read it, but he saw Enjolras’s expression and he knew it must be from home. And so the next day, they packed their bags and, to Grantaire’s eternal relief, travelled to a train station to start the long trip back to Salzburg.

+

From his position on the floor of the amphitheatre, Marius smiled up at the Von Trapp children encouragingly, talking them through the order of songs for the festival that evening, even though they all knew the order by heart already. Combeferre sighed, feeling slightly uneasy. He knew his father had been more than explicit before his departure that he did not approve of the boys singing in public. However, it did not come as a surprise that Uncle Marius had taken advantage of the fact that Enjolras was now absent for the foreseeable future.

They had been rehearsing for most of the afternoon, going through each song and its arrangement, ironing out any little niggles. Without R it had been difficult to sort through the harmonies, especially as Marius appeared to be tone deaf, but Combeferre had tried his best. Singing also had another unexpected benefit; it drowned out the sound of the German soldiers marching in the streets outside the amphitheatre.

It was an uncomfortable new normality, the way these columns of black ants with red arm bands had appeared overnight, their boots crashing against the cobbles. On their walk from the house to the town, Joly’s hand had been tightly clutching his, seeking comfort. The little boy might not necessarily understand the delicate nuances of the politics involved, but he knew enough to be afraid. Similarly Bossuet was shadowing Courfeyrac and Bahorel, the usually cheerful child reduced to silence and staring.

At the sound of those boots inside the amphitheatre, the children looked up. Marching towards them, shoulders back, head held high in an arrogant fashion, was Herr Thenardier. He stopped smartly in front of Marius, arm raised in the now all too familiar salute, and a cry of “Heil Hitler!” that made the hair on the back of Combeferre’s neck stand up on end. Marius stared at him dumbly.

“Good afternoon, Herr Thenardier,” Marius greeted, and Combeferre recognised the slight tone of discomfort underlying his apparently welcoming words. In front of him, Jehan jammed his hands deeply in his pockets.

“Perhaps you have not heard,” Thenardier shot Marius a wolfish grin, a dangerous undertone to his voice. “I am now the Gauleiter. Heil Hitler!” he repeated. Marius swallowed before slightly raising his hand, muttering a meek “Heil Hitler” in return.

“I have just come from the house of Captain Von Trapp,” Thenardier continued, arms folded behind his back, looking very pleased with himself. “Incidentally the only house in the neighbourhood not flying the flag of the Third Reich since the Anschluss, but we have dealt with that situation.”

Marius cleared his throat to interrupt, but Thenardier ploughed on regardless.

“The housekeeper told me that I would find you here. It was the only information the woman would give me.”

Marius suppressed a shiver. Behind Thenardier stood an SS officer, recognisable by the Death’s Head symbol on his cap. He knew of their reputation. Although he had no reason to believe any harm had come to the housekeeper, the threat was implicit and he was sorry not to have been at home when Thenardier had called, if only to have saved the housekeeper from that ordeal.

“What kind of information are you looking for?” Marius asked in a light tone, far too aware of the young boys standing right by him. He did not wish to cause them distress or alarm, and hoped that Combeferre or Courfeyrac would be sensible enough to distract their younger brothers if so required. A twisted smile appeared on Thenardier’s face.

“We want to know when the Captain will be returning.”

“He’s been away, in France I believe. He has not been in touch with us,” Marius replied smoothly and with confidence. That, at least, was true. They hadn’t heard a word from Enjolras or Grantaire since they had left, but then Marius hadn’t expected to hear from them.

“He’s travelling with the children’s tutor, is he not?” Thenardier commented, a particularly nasty smile decorating his features. Marius’s blood ran cold, but he maintained his composure.

“I believe he took a manservant, yes,” he confirmed, keeping the same light tone as before, but Thenardier merely snorted in disbelief. Marius was sure his heart could be heard hammering its unsteady beat from the other side of the amphitheatre.

“When he does return he will be expected to fill his proper position in the new order.” The playful tone evaporated and Thenardier’s voice took on a distinctly more business-like edge.

“Naturally,” Marius shrugged, forcing his face into what he hoped was a convincing smile. “And may I congratulate you – that is, your people,” he continued, directing the conversation away towards safer topics. “In allowing the festival to go ahead tonight as planned.”

“Why should it not go on?” Thenardier grinned again, all teeth and no warmth. “Nothing in Austria has changed. Singing and music will show this to the world.” He fixed Marius with a beady eye. “Austria is the same.”

The two men regarded each other a moment more, before Thenardier snapped his heels together once more, raising his arm and barking a final “Heil Hitler,” before turning and marching away, leaving Marius flushed red, arm not quite raised, looking distinctly unhappy.

“Come on, children, let’s go home,” he mumbled, not looking up, gathering his papers off the stage. Joly looked down at him, chewing his lip.

“Why was he so cross?” Joly whispered, eyes wide. Feuilly rested a comforting hand on his younger brother’s shoulder.

“Everybody is cross these days, darling,” Marius said, looking up and smiling sadly at the little boy.

“Maybe the flag with the black spider on it makes people nervous?” Bossuet reasoned, hugging his brother. Combeferre exchanged a look with Courfeyrac, both of them maintaining an uneasy silence.

Combeferre jumped off the stage to have a quiet word with Marius out of the earshot of his siblings. 

“Is Father going to be in trouble?” he asked, looking into Marius’s eyes, hoping that for once he might be trusted, that he would be given a proper answer rather than platitudes. Marius sighed.

“He doesn’t have to be,” Marius replied with a doubtful look on his face. They both knew what Enjolras was like.

“Are we really going to sing in front of a whole lot of people tonight?” Feuilly spoke up, still clutching Joly’s hand, obviously changing the subject to cheer up his youngest brother. Marius pounced on the opportunity.

“Of course!” he replied, fishing out a copy of the programme from his pocket. “Look, ‘The Von Trapp Family Singers’,” he pointed to where they were listed, smiling proudly. “Here are your names; Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Jehan, Feuilly, Bossuet and Joly.”

“Why am I always last?” Joly pouted. Marius smiled, reaching up to press the boy’s nose with his index finger.

“Because you are the most important.”

As they filed out of the amphitheatre, Combeferre was lost in thought. He wasn’t stupid. He was seventeen now, old enough to be enlisted in the army, if it came to a war. Despite his sheltered life inside the walls of his house, it was impossible to keep the world out altogether. He saw the headlines of Uncle Marius’s newspaper at breakfast. And you only had to walk down the street to see how things had changed.

His train of thought was disturbed by a familiar voice shouting his name. Combeferre looked up, and he swore at that moment that his heart stopped beating. Marching towards him, dressed in a smart black uniform, was Éponine.

Combeferre hadn’t seen Éponine in months, although he had thought about her a lot. With his father and R away he hadn’t really expected many messages to be brought to the house, although he had hoped she might contrive some excuse to visit all the same. He thought about the last time he had seen her, that night in the summer house. Unconsciously he touched his neck, as the memory of the taste of her filled his mind. Now, seeing her, he felt a strange happiness flutter through him.

Heedless of the fact that nearly his whole family was with him, he took off away from them, across the street, meeting Éponine half way. He smiled brightly.

“Éponine, I’m so glad to see you!” he greeted, pulling up slightly when she stopped about two feet away from him. 

“Good afternoon,” Éponine’s voice was strange, distant somehow, as though they didn’t know each other very well. Combeferre felt his face fall.

“You will take this, please, and deliver it to your father as soon as he comes home,” she instructed, holding out a telegram. Her face was closed, eyes cold and Combeferre felt a chill run through him. He knew they were in public but surely Éponine didn’t need to speak this way. He thought of her easy grin, the way she would hold her head to one side. He thought of how she looked when he kissed her. This woman in front of him was a stranger.

“He’s away at the moment,” Combeferre stuttered, for want of anything else to say.

“I know that,” Éponine replied impatiently, as if she had never met anyone so stupid. Combeferre blinked.

“You do?” He took the telegram from Éponine’s fingers, almost unconsciously, unable to tear his eyes away from her face.

“We make it our business to know everything about everyone,” the words came out cold and rehearsed, as though she was repeating some sort of mantra. She sounded like Herr Thenardier.

“Who’s we?” Combeferre asked, completely confused by the entire exchange. He wasn’t given a reply. Éponine merely glared at him.

“See that he gets it.” Éponine turned to go.

“Don’t you want to come over tonight and deliver it yourself?” Combeferre blurted out, desperate for something, some sign that this was all just an act put on in the street. Éponine turned, her lip curled into a sneer and Combeferre’s blood ran cold in his veins.

“I am now occupied with more important matters,” her words were as cruel as her smile. “And your father better be too, if he knows what is good for him.”

With that, she really did walk away, leaving Combeferre with a thick throat and burning ears in the middle of the street. He slowly returned to where his brothers and Uncle Marius were waiting for him. Courfeyrac opened his mouth to say something, or perhaps to ask what that had been about, but he must have seen something in Combeferre’s face to make him think better of it as he promptly snapped his mouth shut.

+

It was not how he hoped to return to his home. As soon as the car pulled up, Enjolras vaulted out, without bothering to open the door, sprinting to the front door. He reached up to seize that disgusting red monstrosity hanging over the threshold, pulling it with all his strength so that it fluttered down. He then ripped it from edge to edge, distaste thick upon his face. Grantaire watched him from where he still sat in the car, face pale.

Enjolras rolled up the now ripped flag, throwing it into the car before holding out his hand. Grantaire took it, giving him a small smile, allowing himself to be led out of the vehicle. Enjolras brushed his lips to R’s forehead, a gentle gesture of comfort, a final private moment before they entered the house. 

The Butler answered the door and there was an exchange of words as the suitcases in the car were unloaded, Enjolras giving instructions as to where they would be moved. Grantaire stood by, feeling somewhat awkward. He wasn’t used to just standing around while others did the work. He felt all too keenly the way the Butler ignored him, moving around him as though he was not there.

At the sound of an approaching car on the driveway, Enjolras and Grantaire both turned. A shout went up as they were recognised by the occupants in the second car. It was the children and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile, not only at the excited shouts but at the way Enjolras’s face lit up at the sight of them.

“We didn’t expect you so soon!” Courfeyrac yelled, practically standing inside the car, almost knocking Marius’s hat off. 

Enjolras strode over to the car, smiling broadly, reaching out to open the door handle, calling out greetings to all his boys as they poured out of the car, wrapping him up in a thousand arms.

Grantaire stood back, feeling shy. This was their moment, between the boys and their father. But then Joly spotted him and gave a shout, practically throwing himself into Grantaire’s arms, Bossuet not far behind. One by one, the boys said hello in their own way, with hugs and smiles and Grantaire felt a strange burning warmth in his chest. He caught Enjolras’s eye, colouring at the smile on the Captain’s face. 

While the boys interrogated Grantaire, Enjolras shot Marius a meaningful look, flashing the ripped red of the swastika flag. Marius gave him a very serious stare in return.

“I had nothing to do with that, Eniolras,” he said, his voice low for the sake of the children. Enjolras gazed at him for a moment before patting his arm.

“We came back as soon as we could,” Enjolras stated, before returning to the happy melee by the door.

He threw himself into the throng, seizing Bossuet by the waist and swinging him, causing the boy to shout out, giggling helplessly.

“We missed you so much,” the boys said, pressing in for more hugs, the sentiments more than returned.

“We missed all the noise you make in the morning telling each other to be quiet,” Enjolras quipped, grinning round at his sons.

“I missed hearing you sing,” Grantaire smiled, still shy but pleased at his welcome. He hadn’t been certain how he would be received by the boys after his time away with their father, but this filled him with such joy, it was almost overwhelming.

“Oh, you came back just in time,” Feuilly spoke up, a rare event indeed. The crowd grew quiet as he spoke. “We’re going to sing in the festival tonight, R. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Bright eyes looked up at Grantaire, filled with hope and excitement and while Grantaire wanted to share in that because, really, he was so proud of how far they had come, he couldn’t help but look over to where Enjolras was standing, suddenly very still indeed. Grantaire knew how Enjolras felt about public spectacle.

The boys grew quiet, sensing the change in the air. Enjolras looked at Marius who at least had the decency to blush.

“Surprise!” he tried, aiming for casual but not quite hitting the mark. Enjolras wasn’t glaring at him exactly, but it was not a happy look. He looked up sharply at his sons who were now standing in silence watching with baited breath. He smiled at them, his expression moving smoothly to one of genuine warmth.

“Surprises for you, on the terrace,” he instructed. The boys took off with a shout, racing each other to see who could get there first. 

Only Combeferre held back, hovering by Grantaire. Enjolras turned to Marius.

“We’ll talk about this inside,” he stated quietly.

“Enjolras, I would have told you, but you were away,” Marius implored, gesticulating wildly with his hands as though hoping to make Enjolras understand. “I had to make a last minute decision. I was fortunate to enter them at all.”

“Marius,” Enjolras sighed impatiently. “Somehow I recall having made it quite clear to you how I feel about my family singing in public.” 

“But the committee heard them, they were enchanted,” Marius tried again. Grantaire couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh, Marius, what did they say?” he couldn’t help but ask. Marius turned, eyes bright, passion burning all over his face.

“I have never heard such enthusiasm,” he replied, his tone warm with pride.

“Oh, Enjolras, don’t you think, just this once?” Grantaire spoke up, voice hopeful that maybe Enjolras might change his mind.

“Absolutely out of the question,” Enjolras retorted, his tone final. Grantaire sighed, disappointed, but stood back, unwilling to press the point further. Marius, however, took no such hint, instead choosing to change tack.

“Enjolras, this is for Austria,” he said, voice serious with sincerity. Enjolras snorted in response.

“Austria? There is no Austria.” He turned to walk away, Marius following him, however unwisely.

“The Anschluss happened peacefully, let us at least be grateful for that!” It was the wrong thing to say and Marius realised it as soon as the words left his mouth. Enjolras spun round, face like thunder, hard as stone.

“Grateful?!” he spat, staring at Marius with blazing eyes. There was a tense moment of silence.

“You know, Marius, sometimes I don’t believe I know you,” Enjolras spoke in a deadly quiet tone, sending a shiver of cold throughout the room.

Combeferre, standing off to one side, watched his father with wide eyes, feeling the heavy nature of the conversation bear down upon him. Suddenly, he remembered the telegram in his pocket.

“Father,” he spoke up, swallowing nervously. Enjolras’s eyes snapped over to him, softening slightly. “I forgot, I have a telegram for you.” He held the message out, feeling it burning between his fingers. Enjolras accepted it from him, turning away to read it in the privacy of his study. 

Grantaire let him go, knowing that Enjolras would need to be alone right now. He shot Marius a sympathetic look. He knew what the man was trying to achieve, even if he was going about it in the wrong way. Marius was running his thumb over his lips in embarrassment. 

“Grantaire, he has got to at least pretend to work with these people,” he said sagely, his face pale and Combeferre remembered the scene at the amphitheatre, the commanding tone of Herr Thenardier, and the stomp of the army boots. “You must convince him.”

“I can’t ask him to be less than he is,” Grantaire replied with a sad smile. Marius nodded, sighing.

“Then I will speak to him again later. If the children don’t sing, it will reflect badly on Austria,” he looked up at Grantaire, before giving a final sigh and walking away. Grantaire watched him go, before grinning over to where Combeferre was standing, somewhat awkwardly.

“How are you, Combeferre?” 

The boy gave him a tight smile, shoulders still hunched slightly from the recent confrontation.

“Did you want to talk about it?” He inclined his head, indicating the nearby drawing room. Combeferre nodded stiffly, following him inside and sitting down on one of the chairs. Grantaire sat in the chair opposite, leaning forward to give Combeferre his full attention, wondering what was on the young man’s mind.

“You love my father, don’t you?” It wasn’t the question Grantaire was expecting, but he wasn’t about to lie. He couldn’t say he was entirely surprised, as the boys’ apparent acceptance of the situation had astounded him at the time. He wondered where this was going.

“Yes, I do,” he answered, without hesitation. Combeferre smiled at him, a rare genuine smile and Grantaire relaxed a little under that serious gaze.

“I can tell. And he loves you,” this time it was a statement, not a question. Grantaire waited for the boy to continue.

“What do you do when you think you love someone,” Combeferre frowned, as though struggling to find the words. “I mean, when you stop loving someone,” Combeferre swallowed. “Or they stop loving you?”

Grantaire sighed. Combeferre suddenly looked very young and vulnerable and Grantaire felt their six year age gap quite keenly. He wondered what had happened while he and Enjolras had been away.

“It feels like the end of the world, doesn’t it,” he said at last, deciding not to over think the matter and just speak from the heart. He thought about that empty feeling in his gut, the feeling that had haunted him the night he had fled from the house back to the Abbey, running from the Baroness and Enjolras and everything else.

“And I suppose in a way, it is.”

Combeferre looked pointedly at the floor, face pinched.

“Were they special?” Grantaire asked. He wasn’t completely familiar with the situation. He and Combeferre had never actually gotten round to having that chat the night the boy had fallen through his window with the evidence of a liaison upon his neck, but Grantaire assumed this heartbreak was the work of the same person. Combeferre nodded stiffly.

“I thought so. But apparently I’m not.”

“Well that’s rubbish for a start,” Grantaire snorted. “There’s nothing wrong with you! Evidently this other person has received a blow to the head!”

Combeferre managed a strange smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Grantaire felt a sense of helplessness. He didn’t know what to say, so in the end he settled for pulling the boy into a hug. It took a moment for Combeferre to relax in his arms, but finally he gave into the gesture.

“Seriously,” Grantaire fixed Combeferre with a firm look as he pulled back. “Take your time. You’re young, you’re bright and you have a great future ahead of you.”

“Combeferre,” the boy’s head snapped up at the sound of his father’s voice. Enjolras stood by the door, a serious expression on his face. Combeferre leapt up off the sofa, evidently sensing that Enjolras wanted to speak to Grantaire alone.

As he passed, Enjolras reached out to give his son a brief hug before releasing him and sending him on his way with a reassuring squeeze to his arm. He waited until Combeferre was out of earshot before turning back to Grantaire who stood by, feeling apprehensive. Enjolras was clutching the telegram.

“What is it?” Grantaire asked.

“Berlin,” he replied, his tone flat and eyes dark. “They’ve offered me a commission in their navy. I’ve been _requested_ ,” Enjolras scrunched his nose as though the word tasted foul upon his tongue, “to accept immediately and report to their naval base at Bremerhaven tomorrow.” 

Grantaire’s heart sank, fear rising in his gut. He knew this would happen, but he had no idea it would be so soon. His hand darted out, clutching Enjolras’s arm, if only to feel the reassuring warmth of the man beneath his fingers.

“To refuse them would be fatal for all of us,” Enjolras murmured, half to himself. Grantaire closed his eyes, feeling vaguely sick. “To accept would be unthinkable.”

He reached out for Grantaire, pulling him close, kissing him with a strange desperation. Grantaire could only clutch at Enjolras’s shirt, breathing him in as though to commit him to memory. Finally Enjolras pulled back, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s.

“Get the children all together,” Enjolras muttered, his breath warm against Grantaire’s lips. “Don’t say anything that’s going to make them worry, just get them ready.”

Grantaire nodded, still clinging to Enjolras’s shirt. The Captain looked up at his surroundings, sighing deeply.

“We’ve got to get out of Austria, and this house,” he turned back to Grantaire, folding their hands together tightly. “Tonight.”

Grantaire didn’t think Enjolras had ever hugged him so tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POOR FERRE!  
> It's all right, I'm sure there's a (very long) queue of people willing to give you to comfort you deserve.
> 
> Now, having studied History to Master's degree level (oooh get me) I'm quite au fait with the particulars of the Second World War and I have to say the Sound of Music has a huge glaring continuity error. Maria turns up at the start of the summer (evidence: need a governess until September, the Captain won't permit his children to dream away their summer holidays.) When Maria runs away to the abbey and comes back, it's late summer because Liesl says she is looking forward to school starting. Then they get married and the honeymoon in just over a month, which we know by Uncle Max's talk with Herr Zeller.
> 
> Now, my point is that the Anschluss, which we are led to believe by the plot of The Sound of Music, takes place between Maria's first arrival chez Von Trapp and the return of Maria and the Captain from their honeymoon which, by my calculation is October, maybe November at the latest. The Anschluss took place in March 1938.
> 
> So, rather than ignore this glaring error to the timeline, I thought I would mention it, more for my own sanity than anything else. Also, just in case anyone else is going "but the Anschluss was in March and this is set in summer/autumn" - believe me, I know.
> 
> Other than that, we've nearly reached the end.  
> Thanks to Sarah (purple_embroidery) for her stunning efforts as a beta. 
> 
> Also, the next chapter... well, as I said to Sarah, nothing like Enjolras and R up against a wall with a gun pointed at them, eh?
> 
> I'm a terrible, terrible person! ;-p


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Von Trapp's attempt to make good their escape... but there's a slight complication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am extremely sorry for how long it has taken me to produce the final chapter. I have no excuses, but I hope you forgive me and enjoy.
> 
> warning for guns - also Nazis  
> (also jeopardy and general emotions!)

It was quite dark when the Von Trapp family snuck out of the house, stealing towards the garage where the cars were kept. The children were dressed warmly, each in at least three jumpers and two sets of trousers, making luggage unnecessary so they would not draw unwanted attention. Over those they each wore their warmest coats and hats as well as their hardiest boots. They were dressed for travel.

Grantaire had explained to them calmly and simply that they needed to go away for a while. To the younger children he had kept his tone light, making it a game, telling them to imagine they were going on an adventure. Joly had absolutely refused to leave Semmelweis behind and it was to his bear that he clung tightly as he stood watching his father and Uncle Marius push the car out of the garage onto the drive way. Grantaire had hold of his other hand, a warm and calming presence in Joly’s otherwise chaotic world.

To the older children, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Bahorel, Grantaire had been more explicit. The precarious nature of their situation sat upon them heavily but they were determined that their father and R could rely on them to help at this difficult time.

“Will we be coming back here?” Combeferre had asked as he pulled another jumper over his head, and Grantaire could see the tight flex in the boy’s jaw. 

“I hope so,” Grantaire muttered, his voice fervent. 

Grantaire herded the children together, watching as Marius and Enjolras pushed the car. Jehan broke away from the solemn group, going to help his father.

“It breaks my heart,” Marius whispered as the car crunched over the gravel towards the gate, “to think of a certain singing group missing the festival this evening.”

“By the time you’ve made the announcement, we’ll be over the border,” Enjolras replied shortly. 

Bossuet, his hand wrapped tightly in Combeferre’s comforting grip, watched his father with a puzzled look on his face.

“Why doesn’t Father turn the motor on?” he whispered, looking up at Grantaire with questioning eyes. Before the other man could reply, Jehan whispered loudly over his shoulder.

“Because he doesn’t want anyone to hear us!” The voice carried and Enjolras shushed him, shooting a pointed glare at his son. They pressed on, almost at the gate.

“What will Frau Schmidt and the Butler say when they discover we’re gone?” Bahorel leaned forward to mutter in Grantaire’s ear. R swallowed.

“They’ll be able to answer truthfully that they didn’t know anything about it if anyone asks them,” he replied, trying to keep the heaviness of the situation out of his tone. This was the worst bit, getting away from the house without being noticed. Once they were on their way, once they were over the border, then he would be happier.

“Are Father and Uncle Marius going to push to car all the way to Switzerland?” Joly asked. He probably intended his voice to be a whisper but it sounded horribly loud to Grantaire who pressed a comforting hand to Joly’s head, hushing him and squeezing the little boy’s hand reassuringly.

Jehan jogged ahead, pulling the gates open before returning to the back of the car. Marius and Enjolras eased it through the gate and onto the highway where they darted forward to open the doors. All at once, lights came on, powerful headlamps, and instantly everyone froze.

“Something wrong with your car, Captain?”

Enjolras felt unbelievably angry. Through the glare of the headlamps he could make out the shadow of two cars with unmistakable red flags set upon the bonnets. He recognised the voice, too.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” he replied, straining to keep his voice level. “We couldn’t get it started.”

Enjolras raised his hand to shield the worst of the light. He counted seven soldiers, one gestapo and there, right in the middle, was Thenardier, leaning casually and arrogantly against one of the cars. At Enjolras’s words, he leaned up, walking slowly towards them, gesturing to the gestapo officer to follow.

“Claquesous,” he clicked his fingers, the officer striding up behind him like an obedient dog. “Fix Captain Von Trapp’s car so that it will start.”

The gestapo officer marched over to where Enjolras stood, the Captain stepping aside with a welcoming gesture. The officer sat inside and turned the engine over. It immediately sputtered into life. Enjolras feigned surprise, shrugging his shoulders as the officer exited the vehicle and returned to where Thenardier stood.

“Excellent,” Thenardier purred, before striding closer to Enjolras and his family.

“I’ve not yet asked you where you and your family are going,” the man smirked, his hands buried in the pockets of his trenchcoat. “Nor have you asked me why I am here.”

“Well apparently we are both suffering from a deplorable lack of curiosity,” Enjolras replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the man before him, not daring to look over to where Grantaire stood with the children. His mind was working quickly, trying to plan, trying to find some way out of this. It wasn’t over yet.

“You were sent a telegram which you did not answer,” Thenardier’s smirk was cold, his eyes steely. “A telegram from the Admiral of the Navy of the Third Reich.”

Enjolras felt his temper flare and he forcefully slammed the car door closed.

“I was under the impression, Herr Thenardier,” he almost spat with disgust, “that the contents of telegrams in Austria are private! At least, the Austria I know,” He glared down at Thenardier, his shoulders square and his back straight. Thenardier merely sneered in response.

“I have my orders, which are to take you personally to Bremerhaven tonight where you will accept your commission.”

Enjolras took a breath. He needed to be calm. He needed to think.

“I’m afraid that’s going to be quite impossible,” Enjolras’s tone was quieter now, his words slow and deliberate. He glanced over to where his sons were standing, Feuilly holding Joly’s shoulders, Combeferre clutching Bossuet, Bahorel glaring and determined and there, right in the middle, the glue holding them all together, was Grantaire whose face was pinched and pale and staring right at Enjolras as though his ability to breathe depended on him.

And Marius. Marius was there looking very pointedly at him as though Enjolras was missing the obvious and then it struck him. Of course.

“You see we,” he gestured to his family, a small smile on his face, “that is, all of us, the entire family, will be singing in the festival tonight. That’s where we are going now. We couldn’t possibly let them down.”

Thenardier looked like he very much wanted to laugh.

“You ask me to believe that you, Captain Enjolras Von Trapp, are singing in a concert?” the man asked, somewhat incredulous. Marius chose to speak up at that moment.

“Believe me, it will be a performance beyond anything even I have dreamt of,” he said, his tone firm with sincerity. He started forward, pulling a programme out from his inside coat pocket, handing it to Thenardier. The man glanced at it in the light of the headlamps.

“It says here only the names of the children,” Thenardier retorted. Enjolras swallowed down his annoyance before replying.

“It says ‘the Von Trapp Family Singers’,” Enjolras spoke in a deadly voice. “And I am the head of the Von Trapp Family, am I not?” he raised a challenging eyebrow at the man, trying to keep his face impassive.

Thenardier screwed up the programme in his hand, casting an unimpressed look over all of them.

“And these, er, travelling clothes that you’re all wearing?” he asked in a dry voice. Grantaire stepped forward then, sparing Enjolras having to answer.

“Our costumes, naturally,” he replied before adding, “Herr Thenardier, this night air is not good for the children’s voices.”

Thenardier looked Grantaire up and down, and Enjolras had to restrain his temper once more that anyone should dare look at Grantaire that way, as though he was dirt, as though he was nothing. But he remained silent as Thenardier considered. 

“Well,” Thenardier said at last, his head on one side. “A slight delay in my orders will not be serious. Therefore you will sing. You will all sing.”

Enjolras tried not to let the relief show on his face. If they could be allowed to get in the car they could be out of Salzburg and over the border before anyone realised they hadn’t gone to the festival after all. He held his breath.

“It will demonstrate that nothing in Austria has changed,” the man continued. Enjolras clenched his fists, but he knew it was an argument for another time.

“And when you have finished singing,” he continued, the old snap back in his voice. “You, Captain Von Trapp, will be taken to Bremerhaven.”

“Now, if you will all get into your car,” An unpleasant leer appeared on Thenardier’s face, apparently an attempt at appearing benevolent. “We will escort the Von Trapp Family Singers to the festival.”

Grantaire immediately began shepherding the children into the car, one by one, not daring to look up or meet anyone’s eyes, hoping that they would continue to be silent a little longer.

“We would not want you to get lost in the crowd!” Thenardier called after them before retreating to his own car.

Enjolras climbed into the front seat, joined swiftly by Grantaire and he couldn’t help but notice how the younger man’s hand shook as he closed the car door.

“We’re going to be all right,” Enjolras reassured, reaching out to link their fingers. He felt Grantaire squeeze his hand tightly before he released it in order to put the car into gear.

As they drove to the amphitheatre, Enjolras planned while Grantaire dealt with the volley of questions from the children. He was vaguely aware of Grantaire’s efforts to calm and reassure them, while at the same time unable to ignore the blazing headlamps of the cars behind him in his rear-view mirror.

They were a little bit late and Grantaire hurried to get the children out of the car and into the theatre. There were so many people, a lot of hustle and bustle and confusion. He was aware of Thenardier getting out of his car. There wasn’t much time. Quickly, he whispered his plan to Marius.

“Do you think you can pull it off?” Enjolras asked. Marius nodded. He would certainly try his damnedest, that was for sure.

+

The performance went without a hitch. They stood on stage, Enjolras on stage right, the children in the middle and Grantaire at the end on stage left, doing most of the leading. Enjolras joined in with the harmonies as much as he could but mostly he watched. He saw the officers standing strategically around the theatre, as though they half expected him to run off the stage mid-performance. In the second row he could see Herr Thenardier and his little gang all sitting, looking uncomfortable and bored, eyes burning into him.

Finally their three songs were over, but Enjolras barely registered the applause. As they left the stage, Marius was waiting for them.

“I think it will work,” he muttered. He paused for a moment, looking them all over. “I shall miss all of you,” he spoke at last, the emotion evident in his tone. Enjolras squeezed his arm just below the shoulder, hoping the action could convey all the words and gratitude that he would never be able to say. Grantaire pulled him into a quick hug before leading the children off in the direction of the back stage area.

Marius watched them go with a heavy heart before putting on his showman exterior, striding purposefully out onto the stage towards the microphone.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you,” he settled the audience with calm authority. “The competition has come to its conclusion. Except, of course, we don’t know yet what that conclusion will be.”

He reached forward to accept the envelope from the panel at the front, stepping back to pull the card with the names of the winners out of the envelope. He paused for a moment, trying not to smile as he read down the list.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he looked out across the auditorium, at the expectant faces all looking back, mostly hidden in shadow against the harsh stage lights. “I have here the decision of our distinguished judges. We will start with the award for third prize.”

In his mind’s eye he imagined Enjolras and Grantaire leading the children through the myriad of corridors to the stage door, out of the amphitheatre and into the night.

“For this honour, the judges have named the first soloist of the choir of St Agatha’s Church in Murback. Fraulein Schweiger.”

There was a fanfare of trumpets and a searchlight swung towards the door that led off stage. A dumpy woman in traditional dress appeared, her hair twisted into two thick buns on the side of her head, almost running up the stairs. She bowed her way across the stage, lapping up the applause. She accepted the large bouquet of flowers from Marius, bowing again before turning back to the crowd, her face the picture of delight as though she had won first rather than third place. After another couple of bows, the audience starting to titter at the woman’s reluctance to leave the stage, Marius beckoned over a stage hand to help the lady down the stairs. There was more applause as she was led off, still bowing in gratitude.

“The second prize,” Marius continued, holding up the piece of paper. “To the Toby Reiser Quintet!”

Another blast of trumpets, and the Quintet came out on stage to rapturous applause. They were more sedate than Fraulein Schweiger, the men shaking hands while the women curtsied and accepted their bouquets gracefully.

As Marius smiled and shook hands, he tried to imagine where Enjolras and the children were, how far away they had managed to get. He resisted the urge to look at his watch, insisted taking his time, but not too much time, to congratulate the Quartet and then return to the microphone. 

“And the first prize,” he began, feeling a strange calm take over him, “the highest honour in all Austria,” Somehow his gaze found Herr Thenardier in the second row and he swiftly looked down at his paper. “To the Von Trapp Family Singers!”

The sound of the applause was deafening, practically drowning out the fanfare, and everyone rose to their feet, anxious to congratulate the winners. There was an awkward pause, the applause gradually fading as the Von Trapps failed to appear.

“The family Von Trapp,” Marius announced again, as though they had simply missed their cue. The trumpets sounded once more, but still there was nothing.

Then someone came running down the corridor, one of the solders. He ran out into the theatre. 

“They’re gone!” he shouted. Marius watched as Thenardier leapt to his feet while the rest of the audience dissolved into chaos.

+

They had barely been admitted into the sanctuary of the monastery before they heard the sound of sirens coming up the hill, followed shortly by the angry clanging of the bell. Grantaire stood against the wall, the boys huddled around him, Enjolras speaking quietly with the Abbot Father.

It had been Grantaire’s idea. The Abbey walls had always been a constant source of safety and comfort in his turbulent life. The amphitheatre was not too far away so as soon as they had stolen into the night, away from the festival, they had walked in that direction, hoping to buy some time before moving on and heading for the border.

As the bell continued to ring, the Abbot Father led them away from the door, moving quickly and silently.

“Quickly,” he urged. “I have a place you can hide.”

They passed some of the Brothers who were heading to answer the door. The Abbot Father told them to slow down, hoping to give the impression that nothing was amiss or out of the usual at the monastery.

It was the Master of Postulants who eventually went to the gate where Thenardier and a group of soldiers stood, still ringing the bell for attention.

“Open this gate!” he barked. The Master continued to move slowly and deliberately, exuding calm. 

“Good evening,” he greeted, as though Thenardier was any other lay person calling upon the monastery. 

“Hurry up, man!” Thenardier snapped, as the Master placed the key in the lock of the gate, turning it and finally admitting them into the Abbey. They pushed passed him, flooding every corridor in search of their quarry. Soon the whole Abbey echoed with aggressive shouts.

The sounds filtered up to the cemetery where the Abbot Father led Grantaire, Enjolras and the children. Grantaire heard Joly gasp and he tightened his grip on the small boy’s hand.

“Oh, Abbot Father, I’m so sorry,” he murmured as they hurried across the graveyard. “We didn’t realise we would put the abbey in this danger.”

They reached the far side of the graveyard where there was a gated area where the elders were interred.

“No, Grantaire,” the Abbot whispered, hurrying to unlock the gate, “it was right for you to come here.”

“We thought we might borrow your caretaker’s car,” Enjolras looked hopefully at the Abbot but the man shook his head, regretfully.

“I’m afraid our car will do you no good now,” he replied. “I’ve been listening to the wireless and the borders have just been closed.”

Grantaire’s heart sank. They were trapped in the Abbey, with what felt like half the Third Reich searching for them, and even if they did escape the borders were closed. He bit his lip, determined not to let his emotions get the better of him. The boys needed him to be strong.

The Abbot Father held the gate open and Enjolras shepherded his sons inside. There were a number of monuments set just away from the wall. The boys scrambled to fit behind them, crouching down, gasping against the cold marble.

“All right,” Enjolras muttered, almost to himself. “The borders are closed. Then we’ll drive up into the hills and go over the mountains on foot.”

Grantaire gasped, even as Enjolras turned to him, that familiar burning look upon his face.

“But the children?” Grantaire spluttered, but Enjolras only smiled.

“They’ll be all right, we’ll help them,” he spoke as though it was the easiest thing in the world. Courfeyrac spoke up then, leaning through the gate.

“We can do it without help, Father,” he stated and Grantaire could see the others nodding in the dark.

“Grantaire,” the Abbot Father called him over. Grantaire went, reaching out through the bars for that old touch, familiar and comforting. 

“You will not be alone,” the Abbot said, face calm and hopeful. Grantaire felt like he wanted to cry. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.”

“Yes, Father,” he replied, and suddenly he reached forward to hug the man who had been all that a father should be and more. He tried to put everything into that hug that was left unsaid. From the squeeze of the Abbot’s arms it seemed the man understood.

Enjolras looked away, giving Grantaire his moment of privacy. He made sure the boys were well hidden. Behind one stone, Bossuet looked up at him with wide eyes.

“I’m scared,” the boy whispered, his head resting against the stone. Feuilly found his hand. 

“Me too,” his older brother replied, holding onto Bossuet tightly.

Finally Grantaire stepped away from the Abbot Father and the gate was closed. The Abbot passed the key to Enjolras through the bars while Courfeyrac and Bahorel shuffled behind a monument, the last of the boys to hide.

“God be with you,” the Abbot prayed. Enjolras smiled at him before disappearing into the shadows.

They had a few moments to take up their positions behind the monuments. Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Joly hid with Grantaire, while Enjolras crouched down with Bossuet, Feuilly, Jehan and Combeferre.

“Hey,” Grantaire whispered to Joly. “Hold tight to me, little one.” He felt Joly’s hands curl round his neck as the small boy buried his head into Grantaire’s shoulder. “We must be very quiet.” Joly nodded against his neck in response. 

R glanced over to the other boys. Bahorel was sitting very still, every muscle taut like a spring. Courfeyrac was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. He opened them briefly, meeting Grantaire’s gaze. He nodded once, a determined look crossing his features.

Enjolras caught Grantaire’s eye, pressing a finger to his lips, straining his ears for the sound of approaching footsteps. He saw the lights first, just before the sound of footsteps against the flagstones. Enjolras quickly stepped behind the monument out of sight.

They couldn’t see much which was good because it meant they couldn’t be seen. Lights flashed against the walls and the footsteps sounded closer. Everyone held their breaths. Suddenly the metal gates crashed as someone shook them and Enjolras leaned down to grab Feuilly and Jehan who had jumped at the unexpected sound. The two boys huddled together, Jehan’s head buried in Feuilly’s neck. Feuilly leaned into his father’s reassuring touch.

At the next series of bangs they were better prepared, waiting for the flash of the torch as it went along the wall. The locked gates continued to bang as each set were tried. Grantaire was sure the men could hear his heartbeat, it was banging so loudly in his chest. He saw Bahorel bite down on his lip while Courfeyrac kept his eyes shut tight, chest heaving as he tried to keep control of himself. It seemed to take forever as the torch went over the wall, seeking out any movement or trace of huddled figures.

Eventually the footsteps moved away and it seemed as though the soldiers were satisfied that the cemetery contained only the dead.

Then there was another set of footsteps, lighter than the others. A slim figure moved across the graveyard, dressed in the same uniform as the others. The figure turned round and the moonlight revealed the face of a girl, a young woman. Beside him, Enjolras heard Combeferre gasp, the boy lifting his hand to unsuccessfully stifle the sound.

The girl disappeared from view and the footsteps faded away into nothing. Enjolras counted slowly to twenty in his head, letting silence return to the graveyard, before stepping out from behind the monument. He paused for a moment, straining his ears but he heard nothing. He signalled to Grantaire to come out, before heading towards the gate. That was when the girl chose to step out from behind a tombstone.

Her torch lit up the gated cloister, exposing all the children as well as Grantaire and Enjolras who stood frozen in the glare.

“Eponine, please!” Combeferre called out. The girl looked at him, a strange expression upon her face. She hesitated, just for a second, before reaching for the whistle in her pocket. Enjolras sprang into action, leaping forward to finish unlocking the gate.

“No, wait!” he said, throwing the gate open and hurrying towards the girl, towards Eponine. His mind was racing. He wasn’t sure how his eldest son was on first-name terms with one of Thenardier’s soldiers but there was something unmistakable in the tone Combeferre had used, and even in the dark of the Abbey graveyard it was impossible to have missed the flicker of something similar on the young woman’s face in return, that moment of hesitation which Enjolras fully intended to exploit.

However he was brought to an abrupt halt when Eponine suddenly produced a gun. Enjolras froze, moving unconsciously to his right, to stand firmly between the gun and his children. 

“Grantaire,” he spoke calmly, “children,” he then gestured for them to go, to get out of the cemetery and away. Whatever happened next, he did not want his children to be there.

Grantaire stood glued to the spot just outside the cloister as the last of the children hurried away. He knew he should follow. The boys needed him, but he couldn’t abandon Enjolras, he just couldn’t.

“It’s you we want,” Eponine sounded belligerent, her tone betraying how young she was but Enjolras didn’t doubt her fervour or her ability to use the gun in her hand.

“Put that down,” he stated, his voice filled with authority and he took a deliberate step towards the young woman.

“Not another move, or I’ll shoot!”

Grantaire stepped forward, wanting to position himself between Enjolras and that gun, wanting to take Enjolras’s hand and lead him away. Wanting anything but to watch this ugly scene play out.

“You’re only young,” Enjolras continued to speak in that calm tone, not exactly patronising but still attempting to control the situation. “You don’t really belong to them.” He started to move again, walking slowly over to where Eponine was standing, the gun still trained on him.

“Stay where you are!” she hissed, but her eyes betrayed her. They were wide and there was more than uncertainty there now. 

“Come away with us,” Enjolras was smiling now, encouraging and welcoming. “Before it’s too late.”

“Not another step or I’ll kill you,” Eponine’s voice waivered only slightly. She looked like a trapped animal on the verge of attack. Enjolras was practically on top of her, fearless, head thrown back, apparently unconcerned with her threats.

“You give that to me, Eponine,” Enjolras’s voice was low and deep, filled with authority. Grantaire swallowed.He had never more terrified in his life. If the gun went off now it would be point blank range and Enjolras wouldn’t have a chance.

“Eponine,” Enjolras repeated. He was so close now he could hear her ragged breathing, see the sheen of sweat on her forehead. She was so young and he pitied her. Quick as a flash, Enjolras reached forward and disarmed her. Grantaire thought he might fall to the floor with relief.

He saw Eponine drop her head, unable to maintain eye contact with Enjolras’s burning gaze.

“You’ll never be one of them,” Enjolras muttered, shaking his head. At his words, Eponine’s head snapped up, old anger back in her face. Grantaire, seeing the danger, leapt forward but it was too late. Eponine made a grab for the gun and there was a short struggle before the night air was torn apart at the sound of a gunshot.

Both Eponine and Enjolras fell to the floor and Grantaire let out a strangled shout, dropping down beside Enjolras.

“I’m fine, R, I’m fine. Come on,” the man struggled to his feet and grabbed the gun where it had fallen on the grass. Grabbing Grantaire’s hand, together they ran over to the steps leading out of the graveyard. He glanced back to see what had become of Eponine. She was on her feet, apparently unharmed and he felt a strange relief to know it. Apparently the bullet had fired harmlessly into the air. Already there was the sound of boots upon the stairs leading up to the graveyard, swiftly joined by her angry shouts.

Enjolras and Grantaire jogged down the steps to where Combeferre had already organised the boys into the caretaker’s car. The two men jumped in, Grantaire reaching over to squeeze Combeferre’s hand that everyone was fine while Enjolras started the engine. The gates stood open for them, two Brothers nodding in the shadows as they passed. 

“We heard a shot,” Courfeyrac choked as the car raced into the night.

“It’s fine,” Enjolras’s tone was firm, his voice slightly louder than usual, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him, not daring to check to see if they were being pursued.

Back at the Abbey, all hell had broken loose. Whistles and orders echoed through the usually sedate corridors of the monastery as the solders returned to their cars, intent on chasing their prey. From his office window, the Abbot Father watched them as they attempted to start their cars, the sound of protesting engines filling the air.

“Abbot Father,” he turned as the Master of Novices and the Master of Postulants shuffled into the room.

“My sons,” he replied, looking at them solemnly. “What is it?”

“We have sinned, Father,” they lowered their gazes while the Abbot Father stared at them in confusion. Glancing at each other, they withdrew from their robes some pieces of metal. They looked suspiciously like pieces of a car engine. The Abbot Father smiled.

+

The sun was rising as Enjolras led his family up to the final peak, crossing the border down into Liechtenstein from where they hoped to seek passage on to Switzerland, perhaps further. They had driven all night, not daring to stop for anything, keeping to the back roads as much as possible before abandoning the car and continuing on foot.

The children had been absolutely wonderful, not complaining once. Joly was nestled on R’s back, asleep. The others carried on, the elder boys helping the younger ones as much as possible. They paused at last as their path finally changed from ascent to descent, the boys flopping down on the grass. Grantaire gently lowered Joly to the ground, flexing his back.

“Are you all right?” Grantaire moved to join Enjolras where he stood staring down at the world beneath their feet. He slipped his hand into Enjolras’s, lacing their fingers together. Enjolras turned to look at him, smiling sadly.

“I’m sure this isn’t what you expected,” the Captain replied, squeezing Grantaire’s hand. “I’ve dragged you up here, no idea if we will ever be able to return. No money, no plan –” Grantaire cut him off with a kiss. It was chaste but firm and warm and full of trust and love.

“I have you. That’s all I’ll ever need,” Grantaire murmured when he finally pulled away. Enjolras stared into Grantaire’s eyes, wondering what on earth he had ever done to inspire such belief, such faith in the amazing man who stood beside him.

Together they looked out and down across into their futures, unsure what lay ahead but certain that at least they had each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I actually finished this!
> 
> Many many thank you's to everyone who has left such lovely comments! Also to Sarah for being my beta and sounding board (and for letting me attempt to kill her with emotions) Also to besanii for the prompt in the first place.


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